


Lessons in Causality

by Renne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Incomplete, M/M, Prostitution, Voyeurism, implied dubious consent, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 46,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames runs up enormous gambling debts, refuses to accept the team members’ offers of financial assistance and becomes a prostitute. Arthur finds himself hating the idea of anyone else touching Eames, but is in denial about his feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the full kinkmeme prompt:  
> "Eames runs up enormous gambling debts, refuses to accept the team members’ offers of financial assistance and becomes a prostitute. Arthur finds himself hating the idea of anyone else touching Eames, but is in denial about his feelings. He proposes an exclusive agreement with Eames, just so he won’t have to whore himself out, but Eames tells him that a deal’s a deal’s and insists on servicing him until the debt is fully paid off."
> 
> This is incomplete and will probably remain that way, however I had 5K odd of already written fic which I posted in my LJ a few months back, and the post is now locked. I have included that here as the second chapter, so anyone who is interested can get an idea on where it was going.

It's during his first, second and third quarterly checkups on his connections that Arthur first misses that there is something wrong with Eames. He seemed to be taking more jobs than usual, more than needed to maintain the lifestyle he was accustomed to, but it doesn't ping Arthur's attention until the next quarter when he discovers Eames is working with a team he'd vowed black and blue he would never work with again on a shitty little low-rent job in Pokhara.

Arthur knows immediately it's a job Eames shouldn't need, and the team is one that had gotten Eames pretty seriously injured in the real world which is the easiest way to get on his shit list (Arthur doesn't doubt in the slightest that he and Cobb are also on Eames' shit list, after the inception job, also for almost getting him killed, but at the same time he doubts Eames has ever talked about him and Cobb the way he talks about Santosh and Alexia).

He's curious enough to spend the next few weeks while he's between jobs poking into Eames' affairs and what he's able to discover is a little alarming. Eames has been taking every single job he's been offered, yet when Arthur rustles up information on the handful of bank accounts he knows Eames maintains, they've all been closed or cleaned out. Where the money is going, Arthur has no idea. He assumes there must be another account, which is a surprise, because for all his security mindedness in other ways, when it comes to managing his money Eames is worse than terrible.

Arthur conveniently places himself in Christchurch in time for Eames' next job and casually proposes they meet up.

(Eames looks exhausted when he arrives at the Belgian Beer Cafe, black shadows under his eyes and even more unshaven than usual. But he's surprisingly forthcoming as Arthur carefully steers the conversation in the direction he wants; usually getting personal information from Eames is like trying to get water out of stone.)

"How much?" Arthur asks. He doesn't really expect Eames to answer - they're not the best of friends, after all, but something more than acquaintances but with a tendency towards snark - yet Eames swirls the dregs of beer around in the bottom of his bottle, glances out the window and casually quotes a number.

Arthur inhales sharply. It's by far well and above what Arthur had expected, higher than any debt any one person should be able to rack up on the back of loan sharks. He opens his mouth to ask how, but this is Eames, after all.

Arthur knows his vices.

"It's not quite as high as that now, of course," Eames says nonchalantly, picking at the label on his bottle of Hoegaarden. "I've managed to work some of it off. I'm sure I can take enough jobs to cover the rest-"

"Eames," Arthur objects. "Seriously, man. You'd need to be working every day for the next year on the kind of jobs you've been taking to clear it. And you've only got nine months."

Eames' smile is nothing short of a grimace. "Thank you, Arthur, for prying into my affairs. You have no idea how much I appreciate it."

Okay, yes, so Arthur might have kind of deserved that. Just a little. "Sorry," he mutters. "It's just..." What can he say? 'I'm worried about you?' They don't do worried about each other - at least, not like this. What they do is 'I'm worried about you because you're about the fuck up everything with [insert thing here], so keep your mind on the goddamn job.' "Any assets, art or forgeries...?"

"Already sold," Eames says and his gaze slides away from Arthur's. "Well before this."

"What do you mean, 'well before'-?" Arthur stops himself, holding up his hand in apology. Eames is being unusually forthcoming as is, but he knows there's a limit, and prying further isn't going to help. "I'm sorry," he says and, "Look. I'll spot you the money." He leans forward on his elbows. "You know I won't kill you if you don't pay up in nine months. We can organise some reasonable repayment terms, you won't have to kill yourself working shitty jobs just to scrape together a few dollars - what were you thinking, Eames, working with Alexia and Santosh again, are you looking to get killed this time?"

There's a tightening around Eames' eyes and Arthur winces, knowing he's crossed the line by getting annoyed. He's hit Eames' limit and Eames' next words confirm that. "Please. I am capable of digging myself out of my own messes." Eames shifts and stands, setting the empty bottle down and slapping down a tenner. "Now, if we're done?"

"Fine, we're done." Arthur waves a hand in frustration. He squeezes the bridge of his nose as Eames stomps away, clearly offended. He tried, can't do any more than that. He just hopes to hell that Eames can come up with the money before his creditors do anything permanent to him. For all their spiky friendship, Arthur's not even sure he likes Eames half the time, but he's an excellent extractor and the best forger in the business. Arthur doesn't ever want to have to consider trying to find a replacement that could even come close to matching Eames' intelligence and skill set.

If Eames went and got himself killed over gambling debts, it would really inconvenience Arthur.

Okay, yes. He'd probably miss Eames a bit too.

*

Arthur has four quick but difficult jobs in succession before he can follow up Eames again (though his problems weigh on Arthur's mind a little). Now that he has some idea of what Eames is up against, he does some digging to find the creditors, fancying there might be a way to disappear the debts without disappearing Eames.

Nothing he comes up with is even remotely useful, however; Eames has borrowed from three very shady characters so it looks like the only true solution is clearing the debts - and interest - in full by the due date. Jesus, he doesn't even know how Eames thinks he's going to do it just taking all the dream share jobs he's offered. Too much time is spent on legwork to make it a truly viable line of work for paying off this kind of debt, not unless another inception job came along, and even with the time and the difficulty, Arthur isn't sure Eames wouldn't feel desperate enough to risk it... he's a gambler after all.

He gnaws at the corner of his thumbnail a moment. Arthur would offer to clear the balance again, but he doubts Eames is yet desperate enough to take his offer, and he's sure the thought of owing Arthur a favour doesn't sit well with Eames. Maybe he could suggest Eames turn back to his old, more lucrative job as a high end art thief. (And he can't believe he's even considering suggesting that.)

He's found the account Eames is dumping all his cash into to cover the debts and when he fingers the history of the money coming into the account he's startled to see that the rate of income has really shot up over the past few months since Arthur spoke to him; up to a rate where Eames, with luck and a tail wind, just might be able to clear it within the time frame. Maybe Eames has already gone back to his old line of work off his own bat?

But when he exploits his backdoor entries into the FBI and Interpol looking for activity on Eames' known aliases, none of his research turns up anything recent. He also can't find anything that indicates significant amounts of artwork have gone missing lately - it's nothing beyond the usual, no spike in fine art crime that could point towards Eames being back in business.

It puzzles him, but it's another month before he has a chance to follow it up further.

When he finds out, he wishes he'd gotten around to it sooner.

*

Eames is in New York by now, and while Arthur doesn't deliberately intend to stake him out, it just seems more convenient to wait in the second floor of the condemned apartment block across the club he'd tracked Eames to with a pair of binoculars and his HDSLR. It doesn't take him long to realise what kind of a club it is by studying the patrons heading in and out, which raises Arthur's brow because he'd never suspected Eames to be into, well, what appears to be a fetish club.

It's nearly two am by the time Eames comes out - it takes Arthur a moment to even recognise him, because he'd never expected Eames to own so much well-tailored black leather - and he's not alone. An unfamiliar wiry man, half a head taller, has an arm around Eames' waist in a possessive grip that Arthur finds he doesn't approve of in the slightest.

He snaps off a few quick shots, zoomed in on the man's face (just in case), before he starts to gather his things to follow. He hesitates a moment when he sees them round a corner to a dead-end alleyway. Arthur had noticed the white Maserati GTS sitting under the orange light in the alley earlier - he'd thought it was strange because the neighbourhood was, quite frankly, shit but there is a man (clearly a security type) standing at the end of the alley, who is obviously there to guard the vehicle.

Arthur raises the camera again as Eames and the man halt just inside the alley. Maybe this is a mark that Eames is fleecing? He zooms in as the man hands Eames something. A fold of cash? Arthur's almost sure it's money; maybe Eames is using being a patron of this fetish club as cover for a swindle?

That theory is blown out of the water when Eames disappears the money somewhere on himself and the man pulls Eames close, gripping his ass and mouthing at his neck. From the angle they're standing, he captures the tired, dispirited look that flicks across Eames' face for a split second.

"...Oh," Arthur says softly. Realising. He knows Eames' limits. Eames would never go this far just for a swindle.

But then he'd thought Eames would never go this far in the real world, again either.

The man drags Eames further into the alley. Arthur's seen Eames do some unsavoury things in his time, both inside and outside of dreams, but when Eames lets the man fuck him over the hood of the Maserati, Arthur feels nauseated. He doesn't snap anymore photos, but he can't look away, focussed the whole time on Eames' blank face until the man is done with him. When the man finishes and they've both tidied themselves up, Arthur watches the man laugh and tuck another hundred dollar bill into the front of Eames' trousers, before sliding into the driver's seat of the Maserati he's just despoiled Eames over.

The sign of a man with too much money, Arthur thinks, is when you can afford to buy someone and fuck them up against your very expensive sports car.

The man reverses the car out of the alleyway, opens the door for the security guy, and then drives off. Eames stays in the shadow of the alleyway, the glowing cherry of his cigarette pinpointing his location. Eventually he slinks out of the alley, heading away from the club and down the street.

Maybe it was just a once off, he thinks, but isn't too hopeful as he watches Eames until he's out of sight. Those amounts of money going into the account are too... specific.

Arthur's not willing to confront Eames just yet, so he forces himself to stalk Eames for the rest of the week, and the evidence backs up all his suspicions. There's the man that takes Eames to his hotel for the night (but even the ten grand that goes into the account can't make Arthur think it was worth it), the elderly woman that Eames escorts to the theatre and to the opera, and a few more evening engagements like the one with Mr. I-have-too-much-money-and-still-can't-get-laid-without-paying-for-it.

Then there's someone else Eames meets with twice, with a PASIV device in hand. As repulsive as it is to Arthur to use dream sharing in that way, a forger as good as Eames really can be anything anyone wants. The PASIV work brings in even more money than the overnight and god, Arthur knows how hypocritical it is of him to hate this when he's asked Eames himself to seduce marks before, but this feels dirty. Like a corruption. To Arthur, Eames deliberately prostituting himself with money for sex is completely different to what they do for a living.

He doesn't want Eames to do this.

To sell himself in the dream world or the real world.

The last night Arthur follows Eames into a different club, where he spends the evening trying to fend off hands and offers as he watches Eames move through the darkened room.

Money changes hands several times and oral sex seems to be the theme of the evening. Arthur's left feeling ill by the number of people, male and female, Eames is willing to let use him in one night alone. He loses Eames only the once, at the end of the night and he's distracted by a persistent woman pressing up against him. "I prefer to watch," he says apologetically, twisting away from her groping hand (and he's not proud he's half hard, but Arthur isn't some sexless robot and not everything he's seen tonight has disgusted him).

"Ah," she says and smiles slyly.

He sees familiar broad shoulders disappearing out the front door and hurries to follow. Eames doesn't get far though - it's another alley job and Arthur sticks to the shadows to get close enough to hear the conversation. "No," he hears Eames say flatly, leaning forward and catching a glimpse of the slope of his shoulders. He's got his back to Arthur, and the man he speaks to is mostly obscured by his body.

"C'mon," the man says in a wheedling tone. His voice is high and his accent has a hint of New Jersey. "I'll pay you."

"Five hundred dollars," says Eames, still in that flat tone.

"Five hundred--! You gotta be kidding me, right?"

"You want to come in my mouth, it's an extra two hundred. You want me to swallow, you give me an extra five hundred. It is that simple."

"But you know I'm clean - I wouldn't have been allowed into the club, otherwise!"

Eames shrugs. "Not the point."

There's a pause and then the man says angrily, "Fine. Here, take your money!"

Arthur watches Eames counting notes and then slipping the wad into his back pocket, before sinking to his knees (and even kneeling the size difference between Eames and the man is obvious. Arthur has seen Eames take men like this in a fight with a broken wrist - he could snap this guy in two with his little finger).

Eames looks up. "My rules are no hands and no hips. You break those rules and I will bite your fucking pecker off." The man whimpers softly, reaching back and grabbing at the wall as Eames leans forward.

Arthur can't see anything - he doesn't want to see anything, Jesus - but his imagination fills the gaps. By the noises the man makes Arthur figures Eames is good at what he's doing, but really, he already knew that; what he'd witnessed in the club proved it (even recommendations, fuck, a guy had come up to Arthur, seen where he was looking and told him, "He's worth every cent on his knees," like Arthur was actually interested).

He watches, helpless to look away, as Eames takes apart this petulant manchild with his mouth and the heavy, nauseating feeling sitting low in his belly grows and twists. Arthur hates this man for using Eames, but not as much as he hates Eames for putting himself in a position to be used, for not taking Arthur's money, for his fucking gambling that he doesn't give up even though he's had to sell all his fucking assets.

But even that's not the worst of it. The sick feeling in his gut is not just revulsion. Oh no. Arthur doesn't want to be honest with himself but he knows it for what it is; revulsion laced with want and with jealousy. The realisation completely horrifies him and he buries the thoughts as far down as he can, stepping back a moment and taking a deep breath. When he eases forward again, it seems Eames has finished with the man.

Eames stands, dusting off his knees. "You're going?" the man says to him, shrilly. "You can't just go!"

Arthur recognises the danger sign in sudden stillness through Eames' shoulders. "Oh? You didn't pay me to cuddle afterwards," he says and then hauls the man forward by the front of his shirt. "I have done exactly what you've paid me for, so run along, little man."

Arthur can't see the expression on Eames' face from this angle, but he doesn't need to. He knows that tone of voice. The man pushes out of Eames' hand and stumbles toward the end of the alley. Arthur holds his breath and presses against the wall, but he doesn't see him there.

Once the sound of the man's footsteps have faded, Arthur watches Eames half turn and jam his fingers roughly down his throat until he violently retches, vomit spattering his shoes as he braces himself on the wall. Arthur watches until Eames is dry reaching around his fingers, bringing up nothing but bile. "Jesus," Arthur hears him mutter.

It should be a comfort, this proof that Eames is revolted by what he's doing, but Arthur knows it's not going to change a thing about his behaviour. He pushes back into the shadows unnoticed as Eames passes.

*

Arthur is in the middle of typing a message to Eames, finally reaching the point in their stupid, stilted text conversation where he feels like he could tentatively propose them meeting up somewhere without Eames automatically assuming it's a trap, when someone stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry-" Arthur mutters, then jerks his head up. "Oh. Er. Hi." Oh god, he hates that he sounds guilty.

"Have you been having fun?" Eames says tiredly.

"Eames, I don't-"

"Don't play stupid, Arthur. It looks terrible on you. I know you've been following me and I would appreciate it if you'd stop." Eames isn't wearing anything remotely like any of the outfits Arthur has seen him wearing over the past week - fetish wear, slutty, strictly professional. He's wearing jeans, a t-shirt and he looks exhausted. Arthur is suddenly hit with a powerful surge of pity. He knows quite a bit of Eames' history (Arthur knows he has some unsavoury habits, and prying into people's histories during slow work periods is just another of them), so he knows that doing this is part of Eames' youth.

Something he promised he'd never do again.

It's unexpected, but he hurts for Eames. "The money," he blurts, "really, I can - so you don't have to do this - I can give it to you, if you want, no expectations-wait, wait, Eames-"

"Stop." Eames tries to sidestep but Arthur blocks him each time. "Arthur. Don't."

"No - please. You can't keep doing this-" He reaches out and grabs Eames by the arm (skin warm under his hand) and Eames slaps his hand away.

"Don't," Eames hisses, stepping in close, right up in Arthur's face. "This has got nothing to do with you. They're my debts, they're my problems. And what I do - whatever I do with my body, with anyone else - that is my business. Not yours." And god, Arthur knows Eames is right but he can't help it. He hates the thought of Eames selling favours (selling himself) to make up the money needed, particularly when Arthur's offered repeatedly to cover the debts. Eames doesn't need to do it and that's what Arthur finds the most frustrating.

Then Eames says, "I know you might find it hard to believe, Arthur, but I'm clean and careful with my partners, it earns well, and above all I do enjoy it," and Arthur loses the last shreds of his temper.

He snaps, "Oh, that's bullshit!"

"Yes, because you know me so well that you can just tell-"

"I saw you! I saw your face!" Arthur says, struggling to keep his voice down. "Eames, when you let that guy fuck you over the hood of his Maserati last Wednesday, you were not fucking enjoying yourself."

He sees the wince Eames tries to hide. "Arthur-"

Arthur grabs Eames again, dragging him towards a small, empty side street. "Look," Arthur says, hesitates as he tries to moderate his anger and then lets out a heavy breath. "Look, I know what you do with your own body is up to you, but... I know you hate it too, which is why I don't - shit, Eames, I'm you friend, I don't want to see you hang yourself out to dry like this. Take the goddamn money. I don't even give a fuck if you don't pay me back, I just... I can't stand you doing this to yourself when you don't need to."

Eames shakes his head. "I can't take your money."

"Why not? Give me one good reason! Is it because you don't want to - to be beholden to me, or something? Eames, that is such a load of shit-"

"Don't be so melodramatic, Arthur. You don't understand. I can't take your money. I have my reasons, isn't that enough?"

"No!" Arthur snarls then scrubs his hands over his face, frustrated. If he lets up, Eames is just going to go out there and keep on selling himself and Arthur's sure he's incapable by now of just standing by and letting that happen. He'd likely kill the next person who laid hands on Eames, that's how much he hates the thought of anyone else - of anyone touching Eames. Like he's just... meat. A toy. A thing. Nothing. He bites down on his bottom lip and it's everything he can do not to punch something - the wall, Eames, anything.

Eames reaches out and curls his fingers around Arthur's wrist, gently tugging his hand away from his face. There's something sad and maybe even a little apologetic in his eyes when Arthur finally meets his gaze. Reluctantly, Eames says, "I can't let you cover this for me, because it's just another easy way out. How - how do I learn, if the next time I've dug myself into a hole because I've-because I can't say no to a bet I know I shouldn't take, I can just come to you? If you just hand over the money now for nothing I'll just end up using you in future. I don't want that."

"But I wouldn't let you use me-"

"Ah, but I can be so very persuasive. How do you think I end up in these kinds of predicaments all the time?" Eames smiles wryly and humourlessly.

"I..." Arthur stares at him. He's always known that Eames' is an addictive personality, but before this, before his own admission, Arthur would never have believed that Eames could possibly have been doing any of this to teach himself a lesson. He'd put himself through all the indignities Arthur has witnessed, through all kinds of hell, as his own personal deterrent.

And Arthur can't do a single goddamn thing about it.

Then it hits him. There is something he can do if, of course, Eames agrees. He blurts, "I want to propose a deal."

Arthur can tell he's caught Eames by surprise. "Oh?"

"Yes," Arthur says. He bites his lip. "You and me. An exclusive arrangement. As such."

"As such?" There's a sudden lightning flash of heat in Eames' eyes before his gaze becomes shuttered, his face expressionless. Arthur can't read Eames when he's like this, all masked and shadowed. There's a long moment of silence as they stare at each other; a standoff as Eames considers Arthur's words Arthur is sure of it. But then Eames finally says, "Arthur, you have my attention. But I think we need to discuss this somewhere other than in the middle of the street. Come, I know a place."

Arthur feels a shift in the heavy weight that had settled in his stomach the first time he'd seen Eames take money for services rendered upon his own body. If he's willing to discuss Arthur's proposition, then he's at least starting to warm to the idea of taking Arthur's money.

That's got to be something, right?

*

Eames guides him to a cafe called CC's a few blocks away and the whole way Arthur tries to think about what he's suggested, how best to deal with this, with Eames, what he could propose that would make Eames take this deal seriously.

Tries to, because all he can think of is that flash of heat in Eames' eyes, quickly hidden.

Arthur's intrigued by it, more than he even realises. But at the same time he knows he can't let himself be, he has to use whatever it is against Eames, so he won't go this far again. Then there's no more time for thinking as Eames guides him to a small table in the courtyard. They're served their coffee and then Eames is sitting back. "So?" he says. "Tell me about this... exclusive arrangement." There's nothing but stillness in his gaze this time, and Arthur shakes himself, realising he's still staring and Eames raises a brow expectantly. "Well?"

Arthur takes a sip of his coffee.

It worries him that he's going to be making most of this up on the fly. He's going to push for a contract because then at least he knows he can hold Eames to it, but Christ, not being able to plan this out? He knows he's skirting a fine line here and he needs to try to ensure he's managed to cover all bases so Eames can't find a loophole to exploit. He doesn't know if he can.

Arthur clears his throat. "I will pay you per day the total remainder of your debts divided by the number of days you have remaining to clear them."

As he speaks, Eames leans back in his chair, slowly folding his arms across his chest. "Obviously. And?"

"You will be required to move in with me for the duration of this agreement so I can monitor your behaviour. And if I travel for a job," he adds, "I think you should come with me. You're an excellent researcher so you're more than capable of helping out."

"And my cut?"

Arthur shakes his head. "No cut, since I'll be paying for everything for you."

Eames looks surprised and then irritated. "So this exclusive arrangement is, in a sense, me becoming your kept boy, being completely penniless at the end of it, and you benefiting from any work I do. Rather like a pimp."

Of course he's going to be difficult about this. "If you want to think of it that way, then yes," Arthur says shortly. Then he flashes Eames a small, deliberately malicious smile. "I prefer to think of it as keeping my eye on you and getting some return on my investment. I want to get something back if you're out frittering away my hard-earned. And not earning more of your own with sex."

"Your lack of trust is truly astounding, Arthur. You do know I'm not addicted to whoring too, right?" Eames' voice is hard and cold now, colder than Arthur has ever heard it. Eames still sits with his arms folded across his chest, but now he's completely closed to Arthur, a solid, tense line through his shoulders. If Arthur didn't know he could match Eames if it came to a fight, he'd be intimidated.

"Of course I do," Arthur says. "But I've also seen your account balance. I know you can make a decent amount of money quickly, so I don't want you thinking you can rustle up some pocket money and hit up the tables just because you're bored." He can't help the threads of anger that wind through his tone at the thought of Eames letting anyone use him again, no matter the price. No matter that Arthur understands why Eames did it, there is no way Arthur will let him do that again. Ever. He'll kill Eames himself first, if that's what it takes.

Maybe some of that shows on Arthur's face, he doesn't know. But whatever it is, Eames doesn't argue any further and his visible tension eases enough for Arthur to continue. "I want conditions," he says, "on excessive drinking - I'm not going to deny you a few glasses of wine with dinner, of course, but getting smashed is off the menu. No drug use-"

Predictably, Eames snorts and shakes his head as if it's ridiculous. And it is, a little. The Somnacin compounds are pretty much the only drugs any dream sharers will do, as the chemicals that make up the compounds have horrific side effects when used with popular recreational drugs in most people. Arthur knows Eames wouldn't use anything that could interfere with his ability to do his job, but since he's planning on taking away all Eames' toys, Arthur is not going to make the mistake of leaving a single avenue to hedonism and debauchery open to him.

Arthur likes Eames, of course, but that doesn't mean he trusts him in anything outside a professional capacity. After all, while it might be ridiculous to push for this condition with an accomplished mind criminal, whoring isn't the only secret in Eames' past.

Arthur ticks further points off on his fingers, "No gambling and no sex, of course. No illegal activities that I don't approve beforehand and," he hesitates because he knows this could be the point Eames revolts against his proposal, "no unaccompanied dreaming."

"What? No! Arthur, you can't," Eames objects instantly, furious, just as Arthur knew he would be.

Arthur's also well enough experienced with Eames to know he's seconds from getting up and storming out, so he leans forward, draws Eames' attention as he rests his clasped hands on the tabletop. "I am sorry for this," he says sincerely. "But if you can just go into a dream and do whatever you like, then all this is going to be a waste of time. And I'm not willing to spend my time on you if you're not committed to dealing with this shit properly." He sits back in his chair again. He can almost see the thoughts ticking over behind Eames' eyes (what is he thinking?). "If controlling everything you do will ensure you don't fuck this up, then that's what I'll do."

"When did this become about 'fixing' me and not about clearing my debts so I'm not beaten to death in a lane somewhere?" Eames snaps.

Arthur gives him a long, steady look. "When 'fixing' you means that you won't end up with debts that end up with you getting beaten to death in a lane somewhere. But if you don't want to do it my way, just take my money and be done with it, because I value you-your skills-too highly to just let you get killed because you've got no fucking restraint." For a second (just a second), Eames almost looks flattered before it's like he remembers he's meant to be angry with Arthur.

"I'm not saying you can't dream," Arthur says gently, "I'm just saying you can't go under alone. I know this isn't an easy condition for you to accept, but I think it's for the best."

Eames stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed and intent, gnawing on his bottom lip. Arthur rubs the back of his neck, allowing Eames to see that he's discomforted. It's part of the give and take with Eames - if he shows a little honest feeling, then he might get something back in return; he knows that when Eames' gaze flicks away, Eames has conceded this point. He will accept Arthur's conditions. He might try to evade, or enforce his own constraints, or look for loopholes, but ultimately he will accept them.

As one of the staff passes their table, Eames snags her attention. "Think you could grab us a pen and some paper?" She smiles and is back shortly with the items. "Ta, love." The warm, appraising way the waiter looks at Eames has Arthur in no doubt as to how easy Eames had found it to convince people to fuck him, and his silver tongue would have convinced them it was their own idea to pay for the privilege.

It doesn't take long for them to draw up the agreement; once Eames has accepted Arthur's conditions, he argues fewer points than Arthur had expected, and Arthur is content to accept most of Eames' phrasing.

As they both sign the agreement and then get the bemused waiter to witness, Eames has a smile on his face, the faintest of quirks to his lips and Arthur has a sudden sinking feeling that he's missed something significant. That he's charged headlong into a trap Eames has laid for him. Did Eames acquiesce to all elements of his agreement far too easily?

He did, didn't he?

"There," Arthur says as he signs the paper below Eames' name (both names in full). "I'll organise for a money transfer to be made into your account weekly."

Eames nods once, his smile widening fractionally with... satisfaction? A hint of smugness? Arthur's feeling intensifies. When he slides the contract back into the middle of the table, there's something else in Eames' expression. ...Triumph?

He tenses as Eames leans forward.

"Believe me, Arthur," Eames purrs as he reaches out, nudging an empty cup aside and curving his fingers around Arthur's wrist (fingers pressed to the pulse point where he'd feel the sudden skip, the beat increasing). Arthur fights the urge to jerk his hand back. The look in Eames' eyes is sudden and hot like before, and it sends a shock of warning up Arthur's spine. "When I say that servicing you won't be a hardship at all."

Arthur reels back in his chair, jerking his wrist free from under Eames' grip. "What?" he yelps. That was not what he was expecting.

Eames' expression changes to a mockery of innocence. "The contract." He toys with the edge of the notepaper they've both signed. "Your exclusivity clause. So I won't need to... go to anyone else. Isn't that what this is? An agreement that allows me to earn my way out of my debts with you and only you?"

"Eames, I - I-" Arthur opens and closes his mouth like a gaping fish. "That's not what it means!"

Eames turns the paper and points out a paragraph to Arthur. "As per your own agreement on the phrasing it says right there: our exclusivity agreement is contingent on me not being involved sexually with anyone else for the duration of the contract. 'Anyone else', Arthur. Which implies," and he gestures between the two of them, "that you and me fall well within the bounds of the contract."

"That might be the case, but it's not going to happen. Ever."

Arthur has a sudden mental flash of Eames sinking gracefully to his knees in front of him, like Arthur was one of those men in that club, or the pushy manchild in the alleyway who had wanted more. He imagines looking down, imagines what his cock sliding in between Eames' lips would look like. Would Eames' eyes be open or closed? Would he enjoy it? Would he want to suck Arthur off--?

"It's not," he repeats harshly; to Eames and to himself and the rebellious imagination Eames likes to insist doesn't exist.

"Come on, you've successfully managed to forbid me from everything else I might possibly derive any pleasure from. It's up to you to entertain me." He pauses and then adds in a different, clipped tone, "I've wanted you for a long time now." Frankly, Arthur is stunned by this open admission. Worse is that Eames isn't flirting or being overtly sexual or acting remotely as Arthur would expect. Instead his expression is blank but for the slight downturn of his mouth, like it's something he doesn't want.

Arthur doesn't want Eames either, not sexually, not any way. He really doesn't. He's never been interested in Eames and he's sure all of these sudden protective urges and jealous feelings are just unnecessary overreactions to the situation Eames has gotten himself caught up in and strictly unwanted, and that's the truth of it. (And yet he still finds himself watching Eames' hands as he toys with a teaspoon and wonders if he'd be rough or gentle or know exactly how Arthur wants it.)

Eames' gaze flicks to Arthur's face, takes in his expression and he breaks into a sly grin. He changes masks and emotions so quickly Arthur's surprised he doesn't get whiplash. "How about we make a bet?" Eames says. "Double the final amount or nothing that I can get you to beg me to fuck you before six months is up."

"Shut up," Arthur snaps. "Just - shut up. There'll be no bet. And there'll be no bet because there is no gambling, so you can just quit even thinking about it right now. You know, I'm - fuck, this is how I am going to break you of this, Eames - celibacy for six months, how does that sound?"

Eames doesn't look the slightest put out. Instead his grin widens, a little feral now, and Arthur can see the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. He leans forward. "It sounds like a challenge."

Something twists sickeningly in Arthur's stomach and he shakes his head. "No," he says, but to his own ears his voice isn't as resolute as he'd like it to be. "No, it'll never happen."

It won't. It can't.

*

They move into Arthur's oldest apartment, a holdover from his stay in Paris when he first left the military dream share program with no direction and too much money. It's the only place that Arthur has that's big enough for two people who aren't sleeping in the same bed (and they won't be, no matter what Eames thinks or tries). The apartment has a spacious living room with a large couch that Arthur is sure shouldn't cause Eames too many problems to sleep on for the duration of their stay.

As they move countries, Eames des nothing but behave himself in a way Arthur finds completely suspicious, because this is Eames and Arthur knows that ultimately, at heart, he is not trustworthy, and never does anything unless there is something in it for him.

But he's docile as they pack up the hotel room he'd been renting in New York and then Arthur's apartment, quiet on the plane to France, positively silent as Arthur reorganises his Parisian apartment to accommodate him. It's out of character for what Arthur knows of Eames, and eventually, after one too many silences in response to his testing jibes, Arthur can't take it anymore. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he says, exasperated.

"What do you mean?" Eames doesn't even look up from the book he's reading (Catch-22, the old, dog-eared copy from Arthur's bookshelf). He's sprawled in an armchair, one leg draped over the arm and the other heel kicked up on the edge of the coffee table. It's terrifying how comfortable and fitting Eames looks in Arthur's armchair, like he's meant to be there.

"You. You're quiet. You're never quiet."

This time Eames looks up. "Not to disparage you, Arthur, but you don't know me as well as you think you do. Besides," and he produces a toothpick from somewhere, "I'm just getting used to my newly enforced boredom." His gaze sharpens and Arthur can see the exact moment his expression turns into a leer. It's a clever mask and if Arthur wasn't watching for it he might just believe it's real. "Why? Do you want me to make more noise? With you, perhaps? Given up on fending me off already?" Arthur shoots him a dirty look. "No? All right then, just thought I'd ask."

He turns back to the book like Arthur hadn't even interrupted him.

The next week is spent in a dance of awkwardness - from the first night the bathroom is clearly going to be a problem (Arthur never remembers to shut the door and does his fair share of blundering in on Eames) - as they learn each other's routines and habits more intimately than either had banked on. Arthur has never had to live with anyone outside of his time in the military before, so when Eames twists in his seat at the table to stare incredulously at Arthur as he wanders around the apartment brushing his teeth and dripping toothpaste water everywhere, Arthur gets defensive.

"What?" he says shortly, around a mouthful of toothbrush.

"Nothing," Eames says. "Just, the-" He mimes brushing his teeth. "The mess you're making. I don't know, I always imagined you'd be as tidy outside hours as you are professionally."

"I'm tidy!" Arthur protests indignantly. He is tidy! He cleans up after himself, there are a limited number of dishes in the sink to be washed, he's even cleaned the bathroom. He even mostly puts things away when he's finished with them, what the hell is Eames talking about? He wipes his chin where he's drooled toothpaste and then rubs at where it's dripped down his chest in annoyance.

"Of course you are. It's just you're... less so with some things." Eames rests his chin on his palm, his elbow on the table as he watches Arthur self-consciously spit into the sink. "I think it's cute."

Cute? Arthur glares over his shoulder at Eames and rinses out his mouth. It's not like Eames doesn't have his own irritating habits that Arthur has had to learn to deal with. Like the whole striding around the apartment in various states of undress thing. Now that Arthur's successfully cut off work avenues and a need for professional dress, Eames spends most of his days lounging around barefoot in jeans and little else. Why he doesn't leave the apartment, Arthur has no idea, but Eames is there when Arthur leaves and there when he comes home, sprawled out on the couch aggressively half naked, feet hanging over the arm of the couch as he devours Arthur's substantial library, or with his laptop, or - most recently - making a complete and utter, infuriating nuisance of himself, poking around in Arthur's business.

Arthur realises quickly that he needs to Eames-proof his apartment after Eames easily picks the lock on his two-drawer filing cabinet next to his work desk and spends the hours that Arthur is out deciphering, reading and then recoding whole files of Arthur's most recent research notes, right down to the notations in the margins.

He does it all in Arthur's own handwriting.

"This is none of your fucking business," Arthur shouts. "You've been through all this information that has nothing to do with you, and then you've fucking - you recoded it and I can't-" He stops. Grits his teeth. How does he admit that he can't break Eames' codes, codes that he's sat up until 3am trying to crack for the past two nights? And while Arthur mightn't be particularly skilled at it, he's no slouch either.

But he doesn't have to say it, because Eames just fucking knows, doesn't he? Eames flicks his fingers at a notebook on the table. "The key is in there. You should learn it. It's an excellent code; my friend in the Royal Navy devised it." He doesn't even bother to look up from his book - some Jodi Picoult paperback that Arthur's never seen before in his life.

Arthur grinds his teeth. "Eames?"

"Mm?"

"Stay the hell out of my files."

The next day when Arthur comes home from having lunch with Ariadne, groceries in hand, he finds Eames sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, the furniture pushed aside and a drop sheet spread out. Every single weapon Arthur has secreted about the flat - including the hard case from under the floorboards in the bedroom that contains Arthur's M39 EMR - is carefully laid out. Arthur's Glock is in pieces in front of Eames as he cleans it.

"For god's sake, Eames," Arthur snaps. "I was out for three hours."

"Well, you did tell me to stay out of your files. And Arthur, really, I know you have your particular favourites, but you need to look after all your weapons better."

Again, infuriatingly, as per with yesterday Eames doesn't even bother to look at him. Arthur is suddenly more wound up by this than the fact that Eames has clearly gone through every single thing Arthur owns to collect his arsenal for this little charade. Eames reassembles the Glock and Arthur can't help but appreciate the deft movements of his hands. There's something to be said for competence, after all.

"Not my preferred, but I can see why you like it." Eames sights the Glock before setting it down and reaching out to flip open the M39 case.

Arthur kicks the lid shut and Eames yelps, his fingers trapped between hardened plastic. He's silent when Arthur presses down on the lid, but Arthur can see his teeth set into his bottom lip in pain. He still doesn't look up. "Do not," Arthur says, "touch the rifle."

Eames doesn't touch the rifle.

Of course, Arthur quickly learns that the more high-tech his privacy solutions, the more of a lure it is to Eames. It all comes to a head when Arthur accidentally intercepts a package meant for Eames. It's full of safe cracking technology.

"I know you're bored and looking to make your own fun, but this is unacceptable," Arthur snarls, thumping down the parcel on the coffee table. He looms over Eames, who is stretched out on the couch; one arm tucked behind his head, all taut muscles and bared skin. Arthur forces his gaze away from the trail of hair that disappears under the waistband of his jeans.

"What's that?" Eames asks innocently. He's finished the Picoult novel and moved onto something again from Arthur's shelves. Der Golem. Once more he's playing with a toothpick, once more he doesn't look up.

"I know what all these things are for, Eames. I'm not an idiot. Cracking my safe was the next thing on your list, wasn't it?"

Eames grins and turns the page. "You can't blame a man for trying, can you?"

Arthur scrubs his hands over his face. He can't believe they even have to have this discussion. That Eames could have so little regard for Arthur's privacy is frustrating. Arthur ignores the faint flare of guilt in his chest given the great breaches of privacy he's committed on Eames in turn, but at least he can try to justify it as necessary. This is just Eames trying to push his buttons (and, yes, mostly succeeding).

In the end, the solution is so simple it's ridiculous.

"Eames," Arthur says in a tired voice. "Can you please just... stay out of my things?"

Eames finally looks at Arthur, really looks at him, blinking and then smiling sweetly. Arthur is momentarily taken aback by his charm. "Of course I can," Eames says.

Arthur stares. "...You're kidding me, right?"

"Why would I be?"

"All I had to do was ask," Arthur says stupidly. "It can't be that easy."

Eames sits up, swinging his feet around to the floor and setting the book down on the couch next to him. "All you ever have to do is ask, Arthur."

"Huh." He knows Eames means that on multiple levels, but when it comes to the little things, the simple things, he wonders if it's always been that easy.

However, if Arthur's expecting things to run any smoother on the home front after that, he's sorely mistaken. While Eames might appear content to no longer poke and pry into Arthur's business, something has gotten under his skin. The second week of their arrangement sees Arthur out most of the time - and again and again Eames doesn't leave the house - chasing up his contacts for any interesting jobs. After inception the market is pretty much open to him; he's a wanted commodity and he can afford to pick and choose the jobs he takes on.

"I'll be out late," Arthur says casually, pocketing his keys. "Don't wait up." He smiles.

"Again?" Eames makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat.

Arthur immediately loses any tendency towards humour. "If I wanted to be judged every time I got home late," he says, "I would have gotten a cat. What does it even matter to you?"

Eames doesn't answer; he just gives Arthur a venomous look.

"Fine, whatever." Arthur throws his hands up. "You know, we've been at this for two weeks and already it's a lot like being in a relationship without any of the benefits of being in a relationship."

He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth, but instead of taking advantage of his slip - for god's sake, he thinks, it's only been two weeks and Eames hasn't tried to exploit a reaction out of him and now Arthur's handed him an excuse on a plate - Eames just gets annoyed. "Well, you could have it all, but you're still up on your bloody high horse. Oh no, can't take what you're fucking paid for, can you? Too morally superior for that."

"Oh shut up, Eames." Arthur slams the door behind him. He was right. Definitely a lot like a relationship without the benefits.

When he returns some time after 2am, Eames is pacing a circuit around the dining table. Arthur's barely even shut the door behind himself before Eames is up in his face, all tightly coiled rage and jabbing finger. "Is this what you plan to do as a deterrent? I have been going stir crazy cooped up in here while you're off gadding around the city until all hours day after day. There is nothing in the contract to give you any right to cage me up here, Arthur. You have no right." His voice is low and harsh with a tone of anger that Arthur's never heard from him before.

There's something about Eames angry like this that Arthur finds suddenly, almost irresistibly appealing, something about the strength in his shoulders, the knowledge that if they had a knockdown dragged out fight with Eames angry like this Arthur's not entirely sure he could win it.

He doesn't push for a fight though, because he's not annoyed and Eames is so very wrong. "No one said you couldn't go out," he says mildly. "I've already put the spare key on your key ring."

Eames pauses and blinks. He lowers his hand. "What?"

"You're welcome to go out whenever you want - as long as you abide by all the conditions we established. I mean, drinking and hitting the tables are out, but you're not under house arrest, either."

Eames is still up in his face, but he's completely subdued now. He looks rather sheepish. "...I can go out?"

"Yes, you can." Arthur can't help grinning. "You seriously thought you weren't allowed to leave? Is that why - is that what all this pouting this last week has been about?" Suddenly it's the funniest thing he's heard all week.

Eames shuffles, scratches behind his ear, doesn't meet Arthur's gaze. "Well, you never clarified, did you?" he says defensively. "You never said, 'Eames, while I'm out, feel free to go play, here is a hundred Euros, don't even think of placing a bet because I am the Great Arthur and I will know and smite you down where you stand.'" His impersonation of Arthur's voice is creepily accurate.

Arthur snorts. "I didn't think I needed to be so explicit. Go to bed, Eames. We'll talk about it in the morning."

"Over breakfast, maybe?" Eames says. "Your shout?"

"Obviously."

*

Eames is whistling when he pushes open the door ('I Get a Kick Out of You', of all things). He looks happier than Arthur's seen in a long time.

It pisses Arthur off.

It pisses him off more that Eames grins carelessly when he sees Arthur, like he hadn't just fallen off the grid for five fucking days without a word.

"I thought I'd nick over to the old place and pick up some of my things," Eames says with a sunny smile. He's got a heavy pack on his back and a paint spattered roll of canvas under his arm. "Took me a little longer than expected to find everything."

"Some of your things," Arthur says flatly, snapping his laptop closed.

Eames stills at Arthur's tone, all the joyful looseness going out of his limbs. "Well aren't you pissy."

"I'm not - I'm not pissy, it's just - we have an arrangement, Eames. Just because you can go out doesn't mean you can just fucking disappear without--"

"Hey, hey," Eames says. "It was only meant to be a day or so at the most, I promise, but I had trouble locating Chin to find out where he'd moved my stuff to." Eames sets the canvas roll on the table and shrugs the pack off his shoulders. "I swear I didn't mean to take this long."

"And you couldn't call?" On some level Arthur is well aware he sounds like a peevish housewife. But on another he knows that the men Eames has borrowed from could change their minds and take payment as a pound of flesh at any time. He really fucking hates feeling worried for Eames.

Eames rummages around in his pocket and pulls out his phone, tossing it to Arthur. It has a huge crack across the screen and won't turn on. "The battery was already knackered - as you know - and then some tosser tried to mug me on the tube and I dropped the bloody thing. Since I don't have any money of my own I couldn't exactly get a new one, could I?"

Arthur turns the phone over in his hands. "You couldn't possibly find any other way to let me know you were okay?"

Eames gives him a steady look. "We might have a contract, Arthur, but you're not my mother." He hesitates, then huffs a humourless laugh. "You care more than my mother, for starters."

Then he smirks a little and says, "Don't tell me you missed me," which no, that is not something Arthur would ever admit to.

Even if he did. A little.

It was weird how quickly Arthur had adjusted to Eames' presence in his life. Like coming home to... to a pet or something. Okay, that isn't a flattering comparison, particularly since Eames is infinitely more annoying than any pet could be, but there's something to be said for his constant prickly, needy presence.

Arthur snorts. "As if," he says. He hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should mention just how nice it was to be able to use the bathroom again without having to remember to close the door, or to be able to have a shower without Eames popping in just to brush his teeth or use the toilet or wash his hands or any of the other stupid, amateur excuses he trotted out daily to ambush Arthur with when he's naked. But that would just give Eames ammunition against him, and the last thing Arthur wants is to give Eames more excuses.

Instead Arthur runs his thumb over the cracked screen of Eames' phone and relents. He can play nice. This is the first time Eames has been out of the apartment since they came to Paris, after all, for all Eames' stupid, self-imposed confinement. Play nice, Arthur. "I'll get you a new phone in the morning," he says and can see he's surprised Eames with his change of tone. "I suppose you'll want a smartphone or something like that?"

"Oh hell no," says Eames and smiles tentatively, as if willing to go along with Arthur's attempt at niceness. "Get me something I can make calls and send texts with and that's good enough for me." (The one Arthur ends up getting him has a camera; it takes Eames about five seconds to figure out and the inbox on Arthur's phone is never the same again. Arthur had never expected one man could possibly enjoy taking that many pictures of his own face. And yet...)

"Did you want to see what I picked up?" Eames asks, a little hopeful, a little eager.

Arthur nods and Eames settles into a seat at the table, reaching for the canvas and untying the string that holds it closed. He unrolls it, and Arthur leans forward despite himself. "Oh," he says, surprised. "It's your brushes."

"Mm," Eames says. His expression is dreamy and distant as he caresses the handles.

Arthur clears his throat. "I thought you said you sold everything?"

Eames shakes his head a little as if coming back to himself, and shrugs. "Some things I couldn't give up," he says. "Besides, it's not like any of this stuff has any value." He's right, Arthur realises, because it's not the pieces that have the value, it's the sum of the parts. Eames could forge a masterpiece out of canvas and paint, but it's only once the work is done that he could ever make any money with it.

Without the whole his paints and brushes are little more than cherished rubbish.

"Anyway, since you're keen on rejecting every job coming our way, I thought I'd do some painting to fill in the time and brighten the place up a bit."

"Are you saying my place is dull?" Arthur says with half a smile.

Eames waves his hand and makes a non-committal noise. "I'm saying it could do with a few more... homey touches." He matches Arthur's smile. "Something a little more you. And a little more me too, I guess, since I'm going to be sticking around here for a while. I'm sure I can paint something you'll enjoy." He hums. "What is it again? Post-war British painters?"

Arthur's knows Eames is more than capable of creating something Arthur will love, and Arthur also knows he'll do it with all the insecurities of someone who believes their value lies not in their original work but on the strength of their forgeries.

And Eames' forgeries are very nearly flawless. But to Arthur they're also soulless, lacking the heart of the original, and that keeps them just shy of perfect. He's seen some of Eames' original works, though and oh, they didn't even compare in Arthur's mind. He'd never admit it to Eames, but he'd spent quite a lot of money over the years tracking down various pieces of Eames' art that he'd sold when he was younger, after the SAS but before dream sharing. Nothing in this apartment of course, and nothing he ever had out when he knew he might be going to get a visit from Eames.

Arthur still remembers the first time he'd seen any of Eames' original art. It had been nearly four years before, in Eames' apartment in London. Arthur had needed a place to lay low when a deal had gone south and in a strange moment of chivalry Eames had offered for Arthur to stay with him.

Eames' apartment was a cheap WWII era affair that Arthur thought really should have been bulldozed years before. It was a place that from the outside didn't reflect the chameleon man lived inside. Or maybe it did. Because it was a building that told the story Eames wanted it to tell, the story of an unreliable man who didn't have ten pound and change to his name, someone as rough and dangerous as the neighbourhood.

Arthur had only been inside the once, but once was all it took to revise his opinion of Eames completely.

Because the sagging red door with its peeling paint, reinforced on the inside with three death trap deadbolts, had opened to reveal a side to Eames that Arthur never expected.

It was the first real time Arthur had wondered how much of Eames' personality was a carefully crafted forge. He'd known a lot of what Eames projected was a mask, a clever deception, but when Eames had reluctantly opened the door and ushered Arthur inside (shadily glancing out into the street to see if Arthur had been followed, shoulders hunched and a toothpick caught aggressively between his teeth, giving the impression of someone who is up to entirely no good), Arthur had been dumbfounded by what he saw.

He'd been expecting a grimy, dark apartment. Messy, maybe. Reeking of cigarette smoke and stale air. He'd been given a taste of that in the narrow hallway, the smoke and damp stained wallpaper peeling on the walls, but then Eames had ushered him through a very 1970s orange glass door (backed with paper so only the faintest glow of light passed through) and into the living room. Stunned, Arthur had stopped in his tracks.

Because this, this was Eames.

This was Eames' space, his home; this wasn't the front he put up to show people, this wasn't a mask, this wasn't what he wanted other people to see of him. This was all him and Arthur understood immediately why Eames had been reluctant to allow Arthur inside.

What overwhelmed him most was the colour.

There had been colour everywhere. Not colour like Eames' habitual clashing shades in his clothing, but... the walls. He'd painted murals on the walls, from floor to ceiling. Arthur turned slowly, taking it all in. One wall was dark, the night sky with pinpoints of light being obscured by encroaching dark blue and grey storm clouds; one was a peaceful beach in muted yellows and blues and greens, still and calm. One was still stark white - a blank canvas; the fourth was wildfire, bright, beautiful shades of red and yellow and orange and black. It was beautiful and unrestrained and incomprehensible.

Arthur didn't understand but he didn't ask and Eames didn't offer. Instead Arthur just said, "Thanks," and, "It'll only be for a couple of days," and then Eames ushered him through to the bedroom and told him it wasn't a problem and he'd take the couch and they'd talk in the morning.

They never did talk.

In the morning Arthur had woken to the sound of Eames moving around in the living room. He was confused when he opened the door and the previously neat room looked like a bomb had hit. Eames stood in the middle of the chaos, an old plaid shirt hanging loose from sagging shoulders and when he'd met Arthur's confused gaze he visibly flinched and said, "I paint when I'm... when I'm upset." The words were meant in a careless, self-deprecating tone, but they were as honest as any Arthur had ever heard from him. Eames' eyes were reddened and his hands stained with black paint. "It helps clear my mind. It helps me think."

Arthur looked away from the raw emotion in Eames' face (he remembers still being confused then, but that didn't last long) and noticed something he hadn't seen the night before. There was another painting over the wildfire, the crumbling decay of a post-apocalyptic city in thick, angry slashes of black and dark grey as the fire in the background raged unchecked through the ruins.

"Here. You should know." Eames passed Arthur an email printout of a terse, devastated message from Miles. Mal was dead. Cobb was in hiding.

The paint on the wall was still wet.

*

Arthur's not sure what he'd expected from Eames after his return from his five day disappearing act; maybe that he'd spend as much time away from the apartment as he could without pushing the bounds of their contract any further than he already had. Which is something Arthur's not entirely sure he'd have an issue with, given that he knows Eames is a thief and a conman, but also a man of his word. If there is anything in the world that Arthur could possible trust Eames for, it would be that.

But instead of his time being mostly Eames-free, Arthur instead sees him more than ever.

Because instead of just seeing him at the apartment as he had when Eames had thought himself under home arrest, he's taken to following Arthur about on his daily trips and lunches (Ariadne is delighted to see Eames) and even to the business meetings Arthur starts arranging not for the jobs but to have a break away from Eames.

Or, more specifically: to get away from the subtle attack Eames launched on Arthur's senses.

It starts not long after Eames returns from London, brimming with energy. He'd been a pleasure to live with, caught up in the joy of painting in a way Arthur had never seen him before. Not even in dreams did Arthur see him like this. It wasn't anything like the time after Mal's death, destroyed cities and bleak canvases; this was Eames at his best, his happiest.

The first few days he painted until all hours, almost completely ignoring Arthur unless Arthur explicitly interrupted him - usually to eat, and once when he was swaying on his feet, staring blankly at the canvas. Arthur had touched his elbow and he started, grinning tiredly as he let Arthur guide him to his bed made up on the couch. Once the initial rush of adrenaline settled, Eames would willingly come away from his painting more often, stopping in the kitchen with Arthur for tea, or sliding into a seat at the dining table for dinner, his fingers still stained with paint.

At first Arthur didn't notice how Eames begun deftly inserting himself into Arthur's personal space, a little closer each time. Arthur knows now that he'd ultimately enabled Eames himself by never complaining, but the truth was he hadn't noticed and didn't notice, not until Eames was close enough to touch him.

Which he did with frightening regularity.

Nothing filthy or inappropriate, just small, casual, every day touches that - as with encroaching on Arthur's personal space - Eames bestowed without an apparent second thought. A touch to his arm or hand or shoulder to get his attention or when making a point, arms brushing as they walked or sat together on the couch for their nightly tv watch. Once Eames had reached out and brushed a smudge from Arthur's cheek and it wasn't until later that night, when he was preparing for bed, that Arthur even wondered why he hadn't thought anything of it at the time.

This is not to say Eames isn't still the same, annoyingly upfront jerk he's always been; obvious and aggressive with his plays to make Arthur capitulate, but it's now underlaid with subtleties of touch and presence and the - the things Eames does for Arthur that he doesn't have to. Like cooking, and bringing him his coffee, and using up the precious Euros Arthur knows he hoards (like he thinks Arthur is going to leave him penniless at the end of the contract) to bring back pastries for breakfast.

So in addition to his normal, frustrating self, Eames is winning Arthur over by being charming and considerate. Arthur's increasingly faced with a fact he's going to have to come to terms with sooner rather than later:

He's attracted to Eames.

Very attracted to Eames.

On a physical level - although he can admit he's always appreciated Eames aesthetically - and on an intellectual level, too. Eames' forays into laughable stupidity aside, they mesh on an intellectual level that Arthur finds incredibly appealing. There's something to be said, he thinks, for engaging with someone who has the capacity to push you to re-examine your opinions and beliefs with a well-crafted argument.

And then, in case that wasn't enough, there's the fact that Arthur is undeniably completely sexually attracted to Eames.

This is why he ends up in leaning on the bar at Footsie, picking up a well-dressed accountant with the sole aim of fucking him. Arthur hasn't been laid in a while, maybe that's most of his problem.

Nothing about Seung reminds Arthur of Eames; he's Korean, not English, and he's young and thin and short. He eyes Arthur with a kind of shyness that Arthur would never see on Eames. Arthur doubts Eames has ever been shy before in his life.

Since Seung is receptive to Arthur's come on, it doesn't take much convincing before they're back at his hotel room. And then Arthur is all over him, and then inside him, and then he's coming hard, gasping, fingers hooked around Seung's wrists, pinning them to the bed as Seung wraps his legs around Arthur's waist.

Arthur hates himself a little for keeping his eyes open the whole time, for worrying that if he closes them he'll imagine it's Eames, even though neither man is anything alike. Arthur is better than that.

He's barely finished coming when he pulls out and disposes of the condom with quick, economical movements, before turning back to Seung. Arthur settles against his side – warm skin on skin and oh, Arthur has missed this - reaching out and curling his fingers around Seung's cock. He leans over, kisses Seung deeply as he strokes him and doesn't wonder what it would feel like to touch Eames' cock (thick and hot, the slick head bared and wet with precome and Arthur would just have to taste it, tongue at the slit until Eames begs Arthur in a broken voice to suck him--)

No. Stop.

No.

Arthur opens his eyes again, pulling back a little, watching Seung arch and shudder next to him, pushing up into his hand. He makes desperate noises, skin beaded with sweat, one hand fisted tight in the sheets and the other grasping at Arthur's wrist until he--oh, there. Seung comes with a soft groan, come wet on Arthur's fingers and his own skin and Arthur leans over, licks into his mouth and kisses him through his orgasm.

Because even though he's not who Arthur wants, it was still beautiful and he is still beautiful and Arthur respects that.

(It's 7am when Arthur returns to his apartment.

Eames is awake already with the Sunday Times spread open across his knees and a cup of tea sitting on the coffee table next to his propped feet. Arthur softly closes the door and hesitates a moment before saying, "Hey." His voice sounds husky and tired and maybe even a little guilty – though he has no reason for it – and Eames stills for a fraction of a second, before deliberately turning the page.

He doesn't look up.)

*

"You've picked all the most boring pitches, Arthur," Eames complains and slouches back in his chair. "I know you're looking for things to keep me occupied, but this is ridiculous. I have things I can do. I can paint. I can house clean. I can clean your guns again and I don't mean that as innuendo, I'll have you know. I can - hell, I can even reorganise your underwear drawer, if you want me to. I don't need to be doing research on a housewife for a spouse dispute extraction, or settling a minor business kerfuffle over bloody recipes, or finding out what a dying mother's last words changing the will to the eldest kid were."

He sweeps the files up in his hand and contemptuously tosses them in the direction of the bin. Arthur watches as they hit the edge of the bin, teeter and proceed to spill everywhere. He turns a mild gaze back to Eames. "You wanted to dream," he says, before turning back to the notes he's typing up. He's only six months behind now. "Those are what I chose."

"I want to dream, but not like that. Not for pittance. If I wanted boring little jobs I'd've stuck with what I was doing before you white knighted me." Eames makes a noise of disgust. "How do these people even know about dream-sharing, anyway? Why can't they use a private detective like normal people?" He unfolds from his chair and Arthur tries not to watch him prowl around the dining table like restless jungle cat. Then he disappears from Arthur's periphery and Arthur forces himself not to tense up, not to turn his head to bring Eames back into view.

He does tense when Eames moves close in behind him, leaning in and reading the files he's working on over his shoulder. Arthur feels a tiny shiver run up his spine at the soft gust of warm breath against his neck.

Eames reaches forward and taps the paper sitting on the table. "Why can't we do a job like this?"

"A government-sponsored black op?" Arthur says. "Not likely. If we do any jobs they are going to be boring and simple and quick. I don't want to spend another four months working on a job, just to end up getting chased through a San Paulo favela by a pack of security goons, thank you very much. Besides," he continues, twisting around to look at Eames, who still leans in just too close to be comfortable. "The only one of those jobs going at the moment is for the US government, and that's a 'no' right from the start. And it's on a man I spent far too much effort militarising to protect from all governments to even want to go back into that. If they want this man's intel that badly, they'll have to get it elsewhere. No one will unlock this man's brains. Not even you."

Eames looks thoroughly unimpressed. "Don't you think highly of yourself. You want a medal or a chest to pin it on?"

Arthur raises a brow and shrugs. He knows the work his team did to ensure the client received the most thorough treatment. It had taken Arthur a lot of money (from a collective of concerned international backers) and a good two months to convince his four specialists to come on board, and then another three to hash out the details of the job: multi-level intense militarisation in four different ways. Arthur knew that by the time Liesel, the last of his specialists, went in to complete her layer she'd had to try seven times just to get a stable dream that didn't involve her being ripped to pieces within the first minute.

Once the specialists had all finished, Arthur had dropped in himself for a trial run - nothing obtrusive, merely intending to observe. He'd lasted a whole of ten minutes, and nine and a half of them were one of the most excruciatingly painful experiences of his life. Even Cobb's guilt-manifestation of Mal had nothing on the viciousness of the projections in the client's subconscious.

Eames sighs an exaggerated, despondent sound when Arthur forces himself to turn back to his laptop, deliberately ignoring Eames and reaching out and turning the page on the file he's transcribing. Eames doesn't say anything for a long moment, still encroaching on Arthur's rapidly shrinking personal space and Arthur is embarrassed when his usually adequate typing skills abandon him under the scrutiny.

Eventually Eames moves, shifting so he leans instead against the table next to where Arthur sits and says in a deliberate, calculating tone, "Have I mentioned how incredibly arousing it is, you having complete control over my life?" He reaches out and trails a fingertip down Arthur's cheek.

The touch burns. Arthur shifts his head away and Eames' finger skips to his neck, following the line of his throat down to his open collar. His fingernail scrapes against Arthur's skin as he curls his finger around the material, tugging gently. "Never thought I'd like that," Eames continues, his voice shifting now to a huskier, warmer tone, "but all I can think of you bending me over this table and--"

Arthur reaches up and pushes Eames' hand away. "Eames," he says warningly, flicking a glance up. He can't let himself dwell on Eames' words. His tone. Deep and rough. Sex.

Eames grins down at him, sharp like he knows where Arthur's brain is at. But then he switches back to the original topic and Arthur almost sighs his relief. "I could always take the PASIV for a spin by myself. It doesn't need to be for a job and you're clearly busy."

"Yeah, about that," Arthur says. "No." Eames might be bored and he mightn't be serious with his suggestion, but Arthur's slowly learning the danger signs for when he's spoiling for a fight (...or a fuck; god, Arthur can feel the heat radiating from him right now). Problem is, Arthur hasn't learned to pick up on the signs soon enough yet, and right now he's pretty sure he's running about two minutes slow.

"Oh, of course," Eames says maliciously. "Because I might go in and go around indiscriminately fucking projections for fake dream money. And then I might build a couple of casinos too, so I can gamble away all my fake dream money willy-nilly."

If there's one thing Arthur has figured out about Eames, it's that if he's going to lose his temper, he's going to lose his temper, and there's not a lot Arthur can do about it until after the initial flare up. "Mm, you just might," he agrees drily. "Best not let you dream alone then."

Eames makes a noise of disgust and wheels away from Arthur. He stomps over to the easel, staring at the half-finished painting (that Arthur loves and can't wait to see finished and hung on the wall, things Arthur had told Eames only that morning) like he wants to set it on fire with his brain. His hands twitch and Arthur thinks he's going to hurl it to the ground or tear it to shreds. He's actually that furious.

Arthur watches him a moment (and fuck, he is magnificent angry), before saying, "We can still go under without a job."

There's long a pause, then Arthur can see Eames almost deliberately relax the tension through his shoulders and his hands easing from fists. He takes a deep breath in and then lets it out slowly. "I thought you were too busy," he says shortly, glancing over. His stance is loose, but his expression is suspicious.

Arthur gives him a look. "Eames. What are five or ten minutes out of a whole day, anyway?" When Eames still looks like he thinks Arthur isn't serious, Arthur sighs, tidies his files and closes his laptop. "I'll go get it now." He gestures to the couch. "Check the door is secure and take a seat."

He fetches the PASIV device from the safe and when he returns to the living room Eames is already comfortable on the couch. Arthur sets the PASIV device down on the coffee table and unspools two lines. Eames holds out his hand but Arthur shakes his head slightly and instead crouches by Eames' knee, tearing open the swab packet. "Here," he says, reaching out and gently taking hold of Eames' hand, baring his wrist.

Arthur looks up as he swabs Eames' skin.

The suspicion in Eames' eyes is completely gone and he watches him, lips slightly parted and gaze intent. Suddenly this is intimate like the world has sharpened down to just the two of them and the air they breathe.

Arthur feels his skin prickle all over as he fumbles with the cannula and hopes his hands don't shake as he focuses on sliding the needles beneath Eames' skin. When he glances back up again, Eames looks almost dazed. He's caught the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth and he curls his fingers, the tips skating lightly over the inside of Arthur's wrist.

It's instinctive when Arthur jerks his hand back at Eames' touch, instinctive with the sharp desire that shocks through him. He can feel his cheeks burning as he turns away to the PASIV device, giving them ten minutes under.

"It's all yours," he says and settles in the armchair.

There's still a faint hint of that dazedness in Eames' face, and when he says, "What, you don't trust me with your subconscious?" it lacks the wounding bite Arthur would have expected.

"...Would you?"

"Good point." Finally Eames smiles and Arthur can't help his surge of pleasure at finding the right tone to shift Eames' black mood and that he's been able to make him smile.

He presses the button.

*

Eames builds.

He builds snow-capped mountain ranges that scrape the sky and dazzling cities of glass and neon lights that exist only for moments before he wipes them away without a second thought.

When Eames builds for himself it rarely feels the way Arthur knows proper dream architecture should; instead it's bright and intense and raw, with an unpredictable wildness that could never convince a subject of its reality. Maybe it's this difference from what he's used to, but Arthur's always enjoyed it. He finds the tendency Eames has to create as he goes along, to cram things into spaces they shouldn't fit without any of Arthur's cherished paradoxical architecture and to do it flawlessly, indicative of the kind of mind Eames has.

They walk along a paved path by a river that reminds Arthur of the Seine. Above them is the city, ancient like Rome or Florence or Milan.

He watches Eames run through a series of forges - a fat old businessman, his favourite blonde, a lanky older teen, a mid-teen in a summer dress, and then into Arthur himself (and he grins at Arthur with face so accurate and so unlike the predictability of looking in a mirror that Arthur has to glance away).

After that Eames becomes a child of five or six, and when she looks up at Arthur she has Eames' own eyes, and Arthur's mouth, set in a serious line. She reaches up and Arthur lets her take his hand, tiny fingers curled trustingly in his, and as they walk further along the riverbank suddenly she's a woman. All Eames but as a woman, her sandy brown hair pulled back in a loose chignon and wearing a long, fitted pea coat that Arthur remembers Mal used to wear, the collar turned up against the stiff breeze. Her hand is different in Arthur grasp, no longer a child's, but still smaller than if this was Eames as himself, fitting perfectly in his grip.

Arthur glances over but she's looking away a little, and his eyes trace the pale line of her throat against the black wool of the jacket's collar. This would all be so different, he realises, if Eames were a woman outside of dreams. This contract. Their whole lives.

Looking at her, he can't help thinking that if Eames was a woman and she'd ended up in this situation, he would have killed the next man to touch her and made her take his money without accepting any protests. It's embarrassingly sexist, he knows, but then again, maybe he's thinking about this the wrong way.

Because Arthur had hated the men (and women) who used Eames, laid hands on him, fucked him, made him suck them off for dollars and cents. He'd hated them with more than just the sick twist of jealousy that they could touch what he never realised he wanted. Arthur thinks of two different men outside two different clubs: a rich bastard who fucked Eames like a toy over his Maserati, a whining boy from New Jersey who didn't know the value of the man whose mouth he'd paid to come in.

And now, right now, Arthur would kill them both if he had the chance.

"You're thinking deep thoughts," Eames says, and he's Eames again, not the woman or the child. He's curious and concerned as he looks at Arthur and says, "Are you okay?"

Arthur looks at him for a long moment, gaze tracing the familiar line of his nose, the lushness of his lips, stubbled jaw, the subtle, masculine set to his eyes. "Uh," Arthur says. "I... yeah. I'm okay." He realises he's still holding Eames' hand, fingers warm and dry – and still a perfect fit – against his.

Before he can let go, Eames leads him towards a flight of stone steps that weren't there a moment before. Arthur halts when he reaches the top; the city is gone like it never was and instead fields stretch away from them, the uneven line of barbed wire fences breaking up the patchwork of sun-baked grass and trees sheltering dust-grey sheep from the sun.

They stand on the gentle curve of a gravel road. Behind them is a decrepit cottage with peeling paint, and flowering jasmine twines along the rail of the veranda. Arthur can smell the jasmine on the hot, dry air and he shoots Eames a startled glance. He doesn't ever remember scents this vivid in dreams before.

Eames just grins, delighted, and leads Arthur to the cottage, up the two sagging steps and through the front door. They step into Eames' London apartment, except the walls aren't painted the way Arthur remembers –the mural now is a single jewel-toned dragon curled around all four walls in thick, careless brushstrokes as it eats its own tail. Even apart from the mural, Arthur recognises the differences between this and the real London apartment – his own couch has replaced Eames' saggy bottomed one, and instead of the low, open chests of art supplies, there's a timber bookcase, all the books Eames has read at Arthur's apartment carefully lined up on the shelves.

"Eames--" he starts, but Eames just pulls him through the room to the bedroom door.

He opens it and tugs Arthur through. Arthur turns to Eames, tries again, "Eames," because he shouldn't be in Eames' bedroom – in dreams or not – but then there's a roaring in his ears and he swears, startled, stepping back and clutching at Eames' arm as the floor crumbles away beneath his feet.

"Huh," Eames says, "that shouldn't be there." But he doesn't sound at all perturbed as he steadies Arthur, leaning over to glance down to the fern-shrouded pool the waterfall thunders into far below. The air is tropical, heavy with mist. "Give us a tick," and he ushers Arthur back through the door and into the London apartment (the dragon is now an English forest, but maybe the forest had been there all along), closing the door behind them a moment before opening it and pushing Arthur through.

Arthur can't help balking a little - he remembers the waterfall, and even though it's only a dream, he remembers the waterfall - and he stumbles, flailing a little without Eames' grip, but it's only his foot catching a little on a rise in the ground. They're on a beaten path and surrounded by forest, just like the painting moments ago. The wind is gentle and Arthur can smell green growing things like he could smell the jasmine.

The trees thin as the path leads to an open field--no, it's lawn, rolling green up to a sprawling manor.

Arthur glances at Eames. "Is this...?"

"The grand family home," Eames says. "I think." He tucks his hands in the pockets of the pea coat he's wasn't wearing seconds before (not so different from the one that had wrapped a different shaped body), his shoulders hunched unhappily.

Arthur wants to take Eames' hand again, to offer him some kind of comfort but Eames' hands stay firmly in his pockets, so instead Arthur gives up his personal space, nudging closer to Eames until their arms touch as they walk. Eames glances at him, his expression unreadable.

From his research Arthur knows that Eames' family life as a child was a distinctly unpleasant one; his mother had been ill a lot, his father prone to violent rages. Eames was the only child, the lonely child, who'd taken the brunt of it every time by putting himself between father and mother, who deliberately drew the father's ire to protect the mother. He'd been hospitalised once with a broken arm and ribs, but there was little money couldn't buy and Arthur was sure the elder Eames thought the handsome donation he'd given the hospital worth every cent to keep his child's injuries from being investigated.

Eames left home at fourteen, four days after his mother was buried and one day after his father had broken his hand fracturing Eames' cheekbone. Everything of value Eames could carry he stole when he left and, Arthur knows, he'd not returned since.

Gravel crunches underfoot and they stop at the front door.

Eames looks up at the building and his expression isn't so difficult now. Sadness. Contempt. Mostly anger.

"Look, we don't have to--" Arthur starts but Eames shakes his head sharply.

"Best get it over and done with."

He pushes the door open.

The foyer is gloomy, despite the high roof and the large windows. A man stands at the foot of a sweeping staircase, one hand on the rail and one foot on the first step. He wears a deep grey suit, well-tailored to his physique (fitted to familiarly broad shoulders and narrow hips, just like--)

The man turns at the sound of the door opening.

The elder Eames is the spitting image of his son, bar the extra lines marking his face, the darker hair just streaked with a distinguished grey at his temples. He should be a lot older, Arthur thinks, but this is Eames' projection of a man he knew as a boy, sixteen or seventeen years ago. Right now they could almost be brothers.

"You," the elder Eames says furiously, and Arthur looks to his Eames who stands frozen and shocked in the doorway, his hand still gripping the doorhandle.

The moment Arthur sees Eames flicker between himself now and himself then (a young boy of fourteen, face swollen and bloody, with rage in his eyes) Arthur says, "No," because he's not going to let Eames do this to himself. He turns quickly, herding Eames back through the door and outside, yanking the door shut behind them. Eames flinches as it slams, pushing back against Arthur instinctively, but Arthur holds the upper hand and he presses Eames up against the wall by the door, fitting himself along Eames' shaking body. "Shh, it's okay," he murmurs, resting his cheek against Eames' as he holds him close. "It's okay."

It's a long moment before Arthur feels the tension slowly unwind in Eames's body and before he sighs shakily in Arthur's ear. "I am so sorry," he says. "That... that really wasn't what was meant to happen."

"Really," Arthur says drily. He gently scritches his fingers into the hair at Eames' nape until Eames finally relaxes completely. Finally Arthur pulls away. "Better?"

"Mm." Eames scrubs his hand over his face. "Christ, I'm a bloody fool. How I managed to forget any projections we encountered were going to be mine, I'll never know."

"You're being too hard on yourself--"

"It was an amateur mistake, Arthur, and we both know it," he snaps, then winces, then rubs his face again. "...Sorry." Arthur's no longer hurt by the sudden venom in the way Eames lashes out, because he's starting to understand that Eames resents the lack of control – but not Arthur (not yet) – that this situation, his debts, the contract has saddled him with, just as he resented his lack of control with the projection of his father. The only real outlet he has is Arthur, so Arthur bears the brunt of it.

While Arthur wants to argue further that he's not to blame, he knows there's no point pushing it. Eames is never going to listen – really listen – to anything Arthur has to say when he's like this. Arthur can't blame Eames for his loss of control because really, with his history, Eames was tempting fate enough as is just by building the manor.

"I just... I wanted to show you where I began. It was meant to be empty. But he was – that tone of voice--" Eames stops and grimaces.

"You don't have to say anything," Arthur says firmly.

Eames studies his face. "No, I don't, do I."

It's not a question because Eames must have realised he knows, but Arthur's not about to apologise for it. Instead he steps back and glances around, slow to realise they're not even outside the manor house anymore. "Huh," he says, "did you...?"

It's Arthur's living room. Not the living room of his Paris apartment, though; it's his apartment in New York. And it's familiar right down to the uneven plaster job covering the two bullet holes in the wall by the front door that Arthur's not sure Eames could know about. Eames has attention to detail, but its people he watches, not places.

Eames looks confused. "I don't think so?"

More than a little unnerved, Arthur says, "Let's just – let's just go somewhere else. Somewhere generic, okay?"

Eames nods. When he opens the door it's to as beautifully generic a streetscape as anything Arthur could have built, somewhere that could be a street in almost any major city in Europe. "Let's stop for a drink," Eames suggests. "I could do with a cup of tea." Arthur casts a sidelong glance at him but he looks practically normal again. Settled, like the memory of a man who'd been such a source of pain all his life hadn't just rattled him to his core.

"You are so... English sometimes," Arthur says as a gentle tease. Testing the water.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"A cup of tea to solve all your problems. 'Want a cup of tea and a biscuit, love'?" Arthur's impersonation of Eames' accent is terrible and he mimes drinking from a teacup and saucer, his pinky sticking up in the air.

Eames huffs good-naturedly, almost cracking a smile. "There is nothing a good cup of tea and a Jammie Dodger can't solve, I'll have you know. It's good for the soul. Ah, here we are," he says and ushers Arthur into a small café that wasn't there moments before, hand resting lightly at the small of his back. The café is still forming as the door closes behind it and when it's finished Arthur recognises in it aspects of his favourite Parisian cafes.

Arthur can't help himself. Despite the occasional hiccup, Eames' flawless control over his dream space has always been impressive and Arthur has a bit of a thing for competence. But he doesn't say that, he just grins. "Are you done showing off, yet?"

There's a twinkle in Eames' eyes as he says, "Not quite." Without even needing to order, the waiter brings over a pot of tea for Eames and a cup and saucer for Arthur. The scent of very good coffee, brewed to perfection, fills Arthur's nostrils and he leans over the cup, inhaling deeply. He takes a sip and lets out a groan of pleasure. "This is really good," he says, "how do you--"

"You should know by now that while I prefer tea, I enjoy my coffee too. I do know what a good coffee should taste like," Eames interrupts primly.

Arthur runs his finger across his bottom lip, licks the flecks of foam. "I was going to say 'how do you know what I like best'? Because I've never had coffee like this at home."

"Why are you always surprised what I know about you, Arthur, really? This is me. I know all the things you like best." And in saying that, somehow Eames manages to sound modest yet completely lecherous at the same time. Arthur can't help but wonder just what Eames thinks he knows Arthur likes the best before he scowls half-heartedly (because he can't be mad, not for a silly verbal trap like this one and not with Eames right now), because that's exactly what Eames would want him to think.

Eames just grins and smugly picks up his teacup.

*

Arthur swirls the last of his coffee around in the bottom of the cup and watches a projection walk past the café window. It's just a normal, unfamiliar projection, but there's something familiar in the way he moves that twigs Arthur's memory.

"Hey. Did I mention that Santosh called while you were in London?" he asks.

"You didn't mention it, no. What was it for?"

"Called me to see if I'd heard from you, said you weren't answering on the usual number and he had another job. An urgent one, he said." It's difficult to keep the distaste out of his voice and seriously, he cannot even believe the size of the balls on that man to call him to ask if he's been in contact with Eames.

"What did you tell him?" Eames must pick up on his tone, because he raises an eyebrow.

Arthur goes with honesty. "That I hadn't seen you and if I did, he's the last person in the universe I would ever refer on to you with work." For the duration of this contract and for the duration of the rest of his life Arthur is more than ready to move mountains to make sure Eames never has to work with Santosh again. He doesn't give two shits if Eames had been working with Santosh and Alexia again after this whole gambling-slash-loan shark issue cropped up. That's beside the point.

Eames looks a little taken aback. He sets his cup down on the saucer with a tiny chink. "That's a bit harsh, isn't it?"

"Harsh? The way Adele tells it, you very nearly bled out on her doorstep in the middle of the night before she even found you. 'His only saving grace was his sluggish English blood,' she said." Arthur might have regrets about his involvement in a lot of the aspects of Project Somnacin, but he can never regret the people he met - that they all met - in the program.

Adele was a civilian doctors and she'd returned to emergency medicine on her exit. As her official cover, anyway. Arthur knows the real truth; on the books her official wage is as an ER doctor, but off the books she's as illegal as he and Eames are, running medical services for the refugees of Project Somnacin - the addicted, the broken, those like Eames (or even Arthur), who live on the edge and suffer for it. "How did you end up working with Santosh again, anyway?" Arthur asks. "You don't like to work with people who almost get you killed."

"You almost got me killed and I still work with you," Eames points out with half a smile before he sighs. "I got desperate," he admits. "I needed quick cash and you know Santosh. Always with the little jobs."

Always with the little jobs. So Eames let Santosh take advantage of him repeatedly, Arthur guesses. But there's something else in Eames' expression, something very carefully closed up that Arthur's learning of him, an expression that means that--

He inhales sharply. "Did Santosh--"

"Yes," Eames says abruptly. "Like I said, I needed quick cash."

Words can't describe how angered Arthur had been at the time by the casualness in Santosh's tone, like he had his expectations of Eames and those expectations were that he'd drop everything to take on one of Santosh's shitty little chickenfeed jobs. His rage trebles now that he knows that it might not even have been for a dream share job. That Santosh might have been calling up to...

"Jesus, Eames." Arthur says before he can stop himself and Eames looks away, his expression unhappy.

All because of these goddamned debts.

Arthur suddenly wonders if Santosh knew more about Eames' debts than their mere existence and his need to pay them off sooner rather than later. He wasn't stupid. If Eames was – if he'd found out that Eames was prostituting himself, he'd know instantly that it was more than just a normal debt. He could look into things just as Arthur did. Sure, he wasn't even half the point man Arthur was, but he had his own tricks.

Had there been something knowing in Santosh's tone? There was definitely something that had set Arthur's teeth on edge, more than Santosh's expectations and Arthur's resentment over the way Santosh spoke to him, sly and superior because he knew Arthur doesn't like him but couldn't avoid him due to their shared professional relationships within their industry.

Arthur's thoughts circle back to his original speculation: Could Santosh know Eames' creditors? He could, there's no reason why not. Eames originally met Santosh through one of his underground poker buddies, after all, so maybe it's not even that a big step to suspect Santosh of having something to do with Eames' money woes.

The thought makes Arthur feel ill.

He glances at Eames, who's closed up again, just like before their encounter with the projection of his father. The hunch to his shoulders, the bitterness in the set of his mouth. Arthur's learning to hate seeing Eames like this. Arthur's learning to hate what makes Eames like this.

"I am going to kill him," he says suddenly.

The words hang in the air.

"...I beg your pardon?" Eames says politely.

Arthur stares at Eames. It all seems so simple now. "Santosh. I'm going to kill him." There's a lovely sense of satisfaction in saying the words. It would hardly be the first time Arthur has killed a man outside a dream but, Arthur thinks, it'll be the first time he's ever wanted to do it. And he really fucking wants to put a bullet right between Santosh's eyes. It won't help with anything else that has happened to Eames, but he'll at least be able to stop this man.

Eames looks stunned; he opens his mouth to speak before he shuts it again, emotions flicking across his features almost too quick for Arthur to read (shock, anger--anguish?), before he suddenly stands and pushes away from the table. Arthur half-starts to his feet, reaching out. "Eames--"

But Eames dreams up a gun before Arthur can stop him. He stares at the slow fall of Eames' body, and as the projections in the café immediately turn to him, he dives forward, scooping up the gun and kicking himself out of the dream as it begins to shake apart.

One of the things that makes Arthur so good at what he does is his ability to wake up quickly and alertly from Somnacin. Eames' name is on his lips as he sits up in the armchair, tugging the two-pronged needle from under his skin.

"I don't want to talk about it," Eames says shortly. He's already spooling his line and Arthur can tell by the set of his shoulders, the way he's slid forward to sit on the edge of the couch that as soon as his line is dealt with (because their training is just that good) he's going to be out of there in a flash.

"Is that because you don't think Santosh deserves to die?" The words almost stick in Arthur's throat with revulsion, with anger, with borderline fear that somehow, despite Santosh using Eames in all the ways Arthur finds most abhorrent, Eames might have formed some kind of - of Stockholm syndrome style attachment to the man.

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

"If - if you don't want me to, you can just say so--"

Eames barks a laugh, bitter and mocking. "Oh no," he says. "Santosh deserves to die. I just..." He stops and sighs and won't meet Arthur's gaze. "I don't want his blood on your hands, Arthur. It's better than he deserves."

Arthur shifts to sit on the couch next to Eames, their knees nudging together. It's with no forethought but with complete honesty when he says, "What about what you deserve?"

He stuns Eames silent with that one. Eames looks at him, really looks at him, smoke-blue eyes searching for something in Arthur's face.

Arthur hopes he finds what he's looking for.

Eventually Eames says in the low, even tone he uses when he's struggling with something he doesn't know how to face, "Why are you even doing this? The contract, helping me out, any of it?"

The question seems completely out of left field. Confused, Arthur says, "I don't - I don't understand. I'm helping you because you're my friend, Eames, and you need help. I help out any of my friends when it's needed."

Eames stares at him. "Friends," he says flatly. "Arthur, to be honest before this I wasn't even sure you liked me. And then you came out of nowhere and offered to help and I thought it was just because... you know, actually I don't know what I thought. I still don't know. And now you want to kill Santosh because of - of what he did. To me."

Arthur has no idea what to say.

Because the thing with Arthur is that he never means to get involved in things quite as intensely as he does. It's like with the Cobbs. They were only colleagues at the start, really. Neither Dom nor Mal were part of Project Somnacin, but they'd consulted on the program, and when Arthur left it seemed only natural to head in their direction. The experimentation and research they were involved in was far more interesting to Arthur than the military applications for waging better war.

He didn't mean to end up as involved with them as he did, didn't mean to become the kind of man who dropped everything every time Dom needed him, but then Mal died and Dom went to pieces and he needed help and Arthur was there. Because that's what Arthur does.

The same went for Eames. He needed help (even if he didn't want it) and Arthur was there (okay, he made sure he was there), what else was he meant to do?

"Look," Eames finally says. "Don't think I don't appreciate that you're doing this. Because I do, I really do. But - what the hell do you get out of it? That's what I don't understand. You're paying an awful lot of money to have me underfoot all the time with nothing to show for it by the end except maybe a few pieces of average art and one almighty big favour owed to you. And I'm pretty sure no favour you could call in would cover what you're doing for me here."

Arthur's indignant about Eames' lacklustre assessment of his own skills, but that's not really the point right now. "Why do I have to get something out of it?" he asks. "I know it might be hard to believe, but I honestly don't have to have an ulterior motive for doing this. I don't expect anything from you. I'm not going to hold you to some favour because I got you out of a tight spot. I just... is it so hard to believe that I didn't want you being used by people who didn't - who didn't care about you?"

"Like you do, Arthur?"

Arthur ignores this question. "You hated what you were doing just as much as I hated you doing it. And I thought that if I could offer you an alternative--"

"Yourself, instead of strangers," Eames supplies.

"You know that's not what I meant--" Arthur starts, frowning.

Eames hums. "I know. But what I don't get is why you don't. Mean it, I mean. It's in the contract: exclusively yours until my debts are cleared. You can do anything you want to me, Arthur, I promise. Anything you want. And I'll do anything to you that you want me to. I'm a bloody good lover; you'd see that if you'd let me show you."

Somehow they always come back to this. Arthur knows the original root of his determination not to give in, because it's the only thing - apart from relative freedoms - that Arthur can hold over Eames (sensual Eames, who wants what he wants and gets what he wants), but Arthur had not stopped to consider how difficult it might be for himself. Because Eames is intelligent and sly and dangerous and he knows how to push Arthur's buttons like nobody else.

Eames continues in a tone warm and gentle and cajoling, "We could be fantastic together. Well, we could be awful too, but we could be fantastic. Why let six months of bought and paid for go wanting? I sure as hell don't want to spend the rest of this time with only my hand for company. And I'm sure you don’t want to--" he stops, grimaces and rallies. "You know I'm attracted to you and I know you share the sentiment. As two consenting adults, I don't see why we shouldn't." He touches his fingers against Arthur's wrist.

It's deliberate. Arthur knows this. It's a deliberate play to win him over, to break his willpower and Christ, Arthur is completely disgusted with himself for even wanting to acknowledge it as a decent argument.

For thinking: he is, technically, paying Eames for sex.

For thinking: what has he got to lose by taking what he's owed--?

Because no. Jesus, Arthur, no. Eames doesn't owe him anything, and thinking that - that Eames owes him something makes him no better than everyone else who used him. And Arthur is better. Arthur so much fucking better.

But god, to make Arthur even doubt himself... What makes this con so insidious is how much Eames wants it. Wants Arthur. This is what Eames meant, way back at the start of all this, when he said he could be very persuasive. Eames' own desire could persuade Arthur.

There's an edge of hunger in the way Eames watches him, in the gleam in his half-lidded eyes and in the faint curve of amusement to his lips. He moistens his lips, just the tiniest flick of his tongue and Arthur feels a shiver of lust go through him. Arthur stands. "I have to go out." He has to leave right now before he does something stupid.

He looks at Eames and looks at the PASIV device. "Don't," he says. "Please. Just... don't. I trust you not to." He trusts Eames, he does. And if he doesn't, he knows exactly the levels of Somnacin in the case.

Either way.

Arthur picks up his jacket, closes the door quietly behind him.

*

Arthur is smashed when he heads back to the apartment. He's not sure why he thought going out and getting shit-faced drunk was a good idea, but common sense abandoned him quite a few glasses ago and right now he's concentrating on not looking like he has a flashing neon sign over his head that says "Hi, I'm incredibly drunk! You should give me a thorough mugging!" as he fumbles for his keys.

When he gets back to the apartment, the only light comes from the lamp in the far corner of the dining area; the radio plays quietly as Ella sings about wanting someone to watch over her. Hand on the doorframe to steady himself, Arthur stills just inside the doorway until he sees movement from the corner of his eye and smells the faint hint of cigarette smoke.

Now he knows where to look, Arthur can vaguely make out Eames sitting in the open frame of the deep casement window in the living room, shoulder propped up against the wrought iron rail. The moonlight from above and lights from below throw him into shadow but for the glowing tip of the cigarette, the swirl of smoke. He doesn't look over when Arthur closes the door behind him, when Arthur stumbles through the darkened apartment and stubs his toe on the corner of the couch and then slams his shin into the coffee table. "God fucking damn it," he swears. "Fucking... Eames," like it's Eames' fault he's really fucking drunk and stumbling around.

Fuck it.

It is Eames' fault.

"It's your fault," he says as he staggers and steadies himself on the bookcase. Arthur blinks to focus and stares at Eames' perfect fucking profile (the smooth, straight line of his nose, and the way he brings the cigarette to his mouth, the curl of smoke that escapes his pursed lips, the flick of his tongue as he wets them). "Eames," Arthur whispers, unexpectedly breathless, and Eames finally turns to him.

Arthur can't see much of anything, but he's mostly sure that's the darkness' fault and not most of a bottle of Mortlach he drank before the bartender cut him off. He sinks down by the window, by Eames' side, peering up into his face in the shadows and light. Eames' eyes reflect the shine of the moon.

God, why does he have to be so beautiful?

"...Arthur?" Eames' accent wraps around the syllables of his name and Arthur can't help pushing up on his knees, pressing his mouth to Eames' to taste that voice. He doesn't like the smoke on Eames' breath, but it's not a deal breaker and he sighs when Eames opens his mouth to him. Arthur doesn't even remember reaching for Eames, but his hands clench in the front of Eames' shirt.

Eames pulls back. "Arthur," he says again, his voice deeper and rougher. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Enough. Not enough." Arthur is confused. All he wants to do is kiss Eames again, climb into his lap and press up against him, see if everything Eames has promised is true.

Laughing softly, Eames touches Arthur's face. His fingers are warm and dry and he touches Arthur's mouth and cheek. The curve of his eyebrow. "You're very drunk."

"Yes," Arthur admits. "Probably." He turns his head, nudges and kisses Eames' fingers.

"What are you doing?"

Arthur blurts out the first stupid, accurate thing that pops into his head. "Seducing you."

Eames raises a brow, but doesn't follow that train of thought any further. Instead he says, "What did you mean when you said it was my fault? What's my fault?"

Arthur sidles in between Eames' knees, between the spread of his thighs. "That I... that I'm drunk. This drunk. That I want you." Because Eames makes Arthur want him with all his sly words and all his careful touches, soft and casual but deliberate, barbed to hook in under Arthur's skin and twist him up with desire. To win his way into Arthur's bed. And Arthur knows that Eames does it for that reason, but fuck, he is drunk and so, so sick of saying no.

"It's all your fault," he says and then he's touching warm, bare skin with the splay of his hands. He doesn't even remember unbuttoning Eames' shirt, but good on him for doing it.

Eames makes a lovely, soft noise when Arthur skims his fingers up his side. He curls towards Arthur, nuzzling against his cheek, his fingers curving around the back of Arthur's neck. The way he moves gives Arthur more to touch and he slides his hands under Eames' shirt, around and over his back. His skin is silky and he can feel Eames shudder under his hands. "You feel so good," Arthur says breathlessly.

Eames says nothing, just presses his mouth against the corner of Arthur's jaw, moving towards his lips. He kisses Arthur, a teasing lick against his lips, then his tongue slides deeper. Arthur sighs happily and opens his mouth to Eames, fingers mapping the muscles under his hands. God, he loves Eames' body. It's hard to pretend he's not interested when Eames strolls around the apartment with no shirt on, that he's not stealing glances like a thief. There's hunger in the way Eames kisses him, almost desperate, desire that's intoxicating itself in its need and Christ, if Eames had kissed Arthur like this sober he wouldn't have needed to go out and get drunk. He deliberately forgets why Eames doesn't kiss him sober and why Eames shouldn't be kissing him now.

Next thing Arthur knows they've swapped positions; he's sitting in the open window, shoulders pressed against wrought iron. His shirt gapes open and his pants, shoes and socks are gone. Eames' lips are wrapped around his cock. "Eames," he gasps and he feels Eames run warm hands up his thighs. Eames hums and Arthur bucks up into his mouth. He's drunk, so drunk, should be too drunk for this. He doesn't know how he's even hard; all he knows is how much he wants this. Eames. Wants Eames.

Eames is fucking godly with his mouth, Arthur thinks.

He's had a lot of practice, Arthur thinks.

Then he can't help it when he wonders how many men Eames has done this to and jealousy lights a fire sick and thick and hot in his belly and his fingers clutch at Eames' hair, convulsively. And then:

Then: Oh god, Arthur thinks. Oh god, because Eames shifts, taking Arthur deep, this time right into his throat and swallows around him. Arthur's brain goes white-hot and he twists his fingers in Eames' hair, desperately thrusting up against Eames' mouth. Eames lets him, his fingers splayed on the points of Arthur's hips.

Arthur can feel the orgasm building, lightning up his spine and tightness in his balls, building like a wave and as it's about to crest and crash over him, Eames slides his mouth off with a wet pop. Arthur lets out a high-pitched, helpless whine of loss. "No," he whimpers, "No, 'm so close, Eames, oh my god, no." But Eames just shakes Arthur's hand free from his hair and shoulders Arthur's legs wide, sliding down. He mouths wetly at Arthur's balls, sucking first one and then the other before moving lower, as he slides a hand down Arthur's calf to his ankle, hooking Arthur's leg up over his shoulder. Opening him up.

Arthur keens and paws at the window frame, the window, the curled iron frame behind his shoulder as Eames' tongue presses against his hole. He grips the iron tightly with one hand, hooks his fingers around the edge of the window by his thigh and pushes against Eames' mouth, his teasing tongue. "Fuck, Eames, ohh fuck," Arthur pants as Eames spears his tongue into Arthur's body, fucking him with it, wetly, obscenely, and god, Arthur fucking loves every minute of it.

It doesn't take much before his vision blurs and he comes hard, wet on his belly with Eames' name a long groan on his lips. Eames surges up and wraps his fingers around Arthur's cock, a streak of come painting his cheek. He takes Arthur's cock into his mouth again, swallowing down the last of Arthur's come and the warmth of his mouth makes Arthur's hips jerk.

Arthur slumps back against the rail, his eyes sagging closed as he gasps for breath. "That was--" he says and, "You shouldn't--" But he has no idea what he's trying to say as Eames sucks him through his orgasm, tonguing the head of his cock until he cries out again, desperate with over-sensitivity but never wanting Eames to stop.

Finally Eames pulls back and in the moonlight Arthur can see the white line of come marking his cheek and he reaches out, touching Eames gently under the chin, urging him forward.

This time its Eames who moves in to Arthur for a kiss, warm body nestled between his thighs. The edge of his shirt brushes against Arthur's cock and Arthur twitches. Eames smiles lazily. "You're bloody gorgeous like this," he murmurs carding his fingers through Arthur's hair over and over. The repetitive touch is mesmerising.

He leans forward to meet Arthur's mouth, but Arthur instead nudges to the left, eyes slipping closed as he flicks his tongue out against the wet line on Eames' skin. Eames lets out a soft sigh and nuzzles against Arthur's cheek. "God, Arthur. You have no idea how much I wish you were sober right now," he says and muzzily Arthur wonders if maybe he can hear a tinge of regret in Eames' tone? Does he regret this? "I wish you had no excuse."

Oh.

Arthur wants to say something: that it's not an excuse and that he wants Eames when he's sober too, even though he knows he shouldn't (not yet) but when he speaks all that comes out is an unintelligible mumble.

Eames laughs affectionately and presses a kiss to his forehead.

"C'mon," Eames says, his voice warm. "Upsy-daisy." He's strong, Arthur thinks as Eames almost single-handedly picks him up, slinging Arthur's arm around his shoulders, his own arm wrapped around Arthur's waist. Arthur's head lolls against Eames' shoulder and he twists, pressing his face in against Eames' neck. He smells nice; the faded hint of his cologne, cigarettes, the warm smell of skin and sweat and sex.

"You smell nice," Arthur says, concentrating on pronouncing his words properly as Eames man-handles him into his bedroom. "Where are my pants?"

"They're in the living room," Eames says, "somewhere," sitting Arthur down on the edge of the bed and heading into the bathroom. As Arthur flops bonelessly back against the mattress, he hears Eames running water.

Arthur feels awkwardly cold around his nether regions and casts about for something to cover himself with, but before he can Eames is back with a warm, wet washcloth. He tsks at Arthur and then, before Arthur can even stop him, swipes the cloth around his crotch. "Hey!" Arthur protests indignantly, because he's drunk, he's not a baby. "What--Eames, stop it."

"Oh, put a sock in it," Eames says. "You'll thank me for it tomorrow when you haven't been wallowing around in your own filth all night. Now where are your jammies?" He leans over Arthur and fishes around under the pillow. Then Arthur feels Eames' fingers on the last few buttons of his shirt.

"No, I can do it," Arthur says and passes out.

*

Arthur wakes slowly; warm, comfortable and in a puddle of his own drool. His feeling of contentment lasts approximately thirty seconds before he rolls onto his side and then pain of a hangover thunders through his skull, his stomach churning. He whimpers softly, curling himself up into a ball.

He remembers leaving the bar, almost single-mindedly concentrating on not falling over and getting home (in that order), but doesn't remember arriving or getting to bed. Obviously he made it though. In his pyjamas too, which is unusual enough for a drunken night out. Usually Arthur just falls into bed in whatever he's wearing, stuff the creases and consequences.

It's only when he focuses on the bedside table that he starts to get an inkling of how pyjamas and tidy, neatly tucked in sheets might fit into the equation.

A glass of water and a couple of Aspirin sit by the clock radio. Next to the glass is a folded little tag that says 'drink me', next to the Aspirin is one that says 'eat me' - with a damn winking smiley too. Arthur recognises the handwriting.

Eames must have helped him to bed then, and tucked him in.

That was nice of him. Awkward, because Arthur can't remember anything he might have said to Eames between the front door and the bed, but nice nonetheless.

There's another note folded into an origami flower with his name on it next to the glass. Arthur gingerly reaches out and picks it up, trying not to move any more than he has to. He unfolds it. 'There's a bucket by the bed if you need it...' it says and next to the words is another smiley and a tiny, stupid goddamned love heart. Arthur smiles faintly, helplessly. "Smartass," he mumbles.

Half a minute later he's reaching for the bucket.

Half a minute after that, Eames is perched on the edge of the bed next to him, solicitously rubbing his back and draping a cold, damp washcloth over the back of his neck.

He makes soft, soothing noises as Arthur empties his stomach. Arthur's shaking when he raises his head, wiping his mouth with the towel Eames passes him. "Didn't you make an almighty mess of yourself last night," Eames says cheerily.

Arthur groans. "Whatever I did," he says, his voice rasping in his raw throat, "I'm sorry."

"You don't remember?"

Arthur starts to shake his head, only to realise half a second later that it really isn't a good idea as his stomach heaves again.

"Of course you don't," Eames says, from somewhere just by Arthur's ear. "But don't worry. It was nothing." His touch is ridiculously gentle as he brushes Arthur's hair from his face. "You're a sloppy drunk, but you were perfectly respectable. Well. Except for when you kept walking into the coffee table." He tsks as Arthur straightens. "You have a right foul mouth on you sometimes, Arthur."

Despite himself, Arthur manages a smile. "I know."

"Hey," Eames says, pleased. "Now that's what I want to see. I went out earlier and got some things to make you--" he hesitates and looks at the clock, "lunch, so drink your water and eat your Aspirin, and when you feel up to it come through and I'll make you my hangover brekkie. Lunch. Whatever you want to call it, it'll do you good." He chucks Arthur under the chin and Arthur scowls. "Do be a good boy and let me know when you want to have a shower so I can keep an ear out. I'd hate for you to fall and crack your skull open because you're too hungover to function."

Sometimes Arthur would love to be able to hate Eames, he thinks as he blearily watches Eames pad back out to the living room. He's not watching Eames' ass, not really. It's just. Pointed in his direction. And the thin, soft material of the aged pair of sweatpants he's wearing just happens to cling in certain spots. Arthur is most definitely not watching Eames' ass. At least he's wearing a t-shirt for once and Arthur is honestly not cursing that. Honestly.

Christ, Arthur is too hungover for this.

*

Arthur sits on the tiles under the spray feeling utterly miserable. He's emptied his stomach, but the Aspirin seems to be taking a sadistically long time to kick in when there is absolutely nothing else in there to digest. He sighs and drags the soapy washcloth over his chest and down over his groin and thighs. There's a tender patch on the inside of one of Arthur's legs, tender like the way he feels around his mouth, tender like beard rash, but he isn't sure he remembers picking anyone up or random blow jobs in an alley somewhere. He's positive it wasn't Eames though, because that – Arthur's capitulation – is something Arthur knows Eames would be incapable of ever letting him forget.

Maybe he picked up at the bar, just a quick stop, maybe something cheap and dirty in the bathroom before he left to come home as insurance against Eames and the way he makes Arthur desperately want him. Enough to take the edge off Arthur's own want (but not enough to put that disappointed, angry look on Eames' face again, god, Arthur hated that).

Yes, he thinks, maybe he does remember picking up.

He remembers talking with a man with an English accent (not quite right), with sandy blond hair and golden stubble on his chin (just a little too fair), and a full mouth (but not the same). He'd been attracted to him in the way one is when they see echoes in a stranger. He doesn't remember anything actually happening - no, that's not right, now is it, because he does remember snatches of a man on his knees, of broad shoulders and a hot mouth. It's the 'how' that he doesn't remember. Arthur runs his thumb over tender skin, one hand at his mouth and the other between his legs as he focuses on the memory, teasing it out into a fantasy.

He slumps down further against the tiles and slides his hand from his thigh to his cock, stroking himself until he's hard and thinks about a man who looks like Eames (and it's easy with the fantasy to imagine it was Eames, his face seamlessly blending over what Arthur remembers of a stranger all shadows and hints of the real thing) sucking him off and knowing just how Arthur wants it.

Arthur jerks himself steadily, eyes scrunched closed against the water, picturing himself coming on Eames as he peaks. He exhales explosively because shit, that is a filthy hot image. Eames, all dirtied up from Arthur's come on his lips and face and chest. He'd fucking love it too.

The water is starting to cool when Arthur finally stands, knees a little shaky but stomach definitely more stable and head almost clear, and shuts the water off.

He bundles himself up in towels and hoofs it the few steps his bedroom, closing the door behind him. After a moment he hears a polite scratch at his bedroom door and Eames calls through, "Everything okay, Arthur? Would you like me to put some coffee and food on?"

"Um," Arthur says, clutching his towel tighter even though Eames is still on the other side of the door. "Please?"

When Arthur is dressed – sweatpants of his own and an old t-shirt, because he is not leaving the apartment today for anyone - he pads out to the living room where he can smell bacon and onions frying. Eames peers around the kitchen door frame and grins at him. He has a tea towel draped over his shoulder. "Hey," he says. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Arthur says. "Human again."

Arthur stops when he sees his laptop is still open where he left it after their aborted session with the PASIV device yesterday, his notes and files still arranged around it. A cooling cup of tea sits on top of a folder and even though the screen is dark, Arthur can hear music coming from its speakers.

Arthur stares. "That's not – that's not how I left it yesterday. Eames, are you--?"

"Don't get mad," Eames says quickly, insinuating himself between Arthur and the table. "I just – I felt bad for what happened yesterday, with the PASIV and you not getting to finish your work and everything, and I just... I thought I'd help out." He chews on the corner of his thumbnail. "It's nothing I hadn't already seen when I went through your files that first week, I swear."

He looks so sincere that Arthur couldn't be mad even if he wanted to. Which, actually, he doesn't. If anything he's touched that a) Eames would even think of it, and b) that Eames would go ahead and actually do it. When Arthur says, "Thank you," Eames looks startled.

"You're not mad?"

"I would have preferred you ask first, but no, I'm not mad." Arthur flicks Eames an arch look. "This time."

The skin around Eames' eyes crinkles he's smiling so hard. "Duly noted," he says. "Now sit."

Arthur seats himself in front of one of the set places and a moment later Eames slides a plate of the biggest, greasiest cooked breakfast in front of him that he's ever seen. It smells heavenly and a half a dozen mouthfuls in it's like Arthur's forgotten he was ever hungover. He gives Eames the thumbs up as he shoves a half a roasted tomato with parmesan in his mouth.

After a while Arthur slows down to a leisurely pace as his stomach begins to register that there's food in it now. He glances at Eames then frowns. "What happened here?" he asks curiously, reaching out and touching a graze on Eames' jaw, back near his ear. "I don't remember that yesterday." It has the raw freshness of a new injury, a bruise darkening up beneath roughed skin.

"Oh," Eames says, looking a little embarrassed. "I fell on the front steps this morning when I went out. I've told Jeanie before not to leave her papers there, because they're a health hazard, and today, well..." He winces. "You should see the state of my ribs." And with all the confidence of a complete exhibitionist, Eames twists in his chair, lifting the hem of his shirt to show the long red welt and the mottle of bruises forming around the side of his ribcage. Then he actually grins.

"Nothing's broken," he says as Arthur reaches out and skims his fingers over the welt. Eames must have come down on the step hard. "Ow, Arthur," Eames complains as Arthur prods at a bruise. "Nothing was broken, but if you keep poking me like that..."

"Sorry," Arthur says contritely. Or at least he aims for contrite but mostly muddles somewhere around abashed. He presses his hand flat against Eames skin, runs it over the length of the raised welt hot under his palm. Then he realises what he's doing and snatches his hand away.

Eames watches him with an amused look, lowering his shirt.

"Shut up," Arthur mutters into his plate. He can feel the heat in his cheeks. "I'm hungover, okay?"

"Mm."

"Ridiculously, stupidly hungover."

"Uh-huh."

"You should - in the bathroom I have some Tiger Balm. For the muscle pain. You should rub some in."

"Right."

"Or - or I could rub some in if it's too awkward for you. That's not a proposition, by the way. I'm just offering to help out an invalid."

"Of course."

Arthur peeks up and Eames is watching him, still wearing that look of amusement. "Shut up," he repeats and Eames' mouth twitches.

"Wouldn't think of saying a word," Eames says solemnly. "More bacon?" He piles it onto Arthur's plate without even waiting for an answer.

Unsurprisingly to either of them, Arthur ends up straddling Eames' hips, massaging Tiger Balm into his back as Eames sprawls out on Arthur's bed. Arthur's intention was merely to look to the bruising on Eames' side, but as soon as Arthur touches him he can feel the tension in his muscles and, well. It just seems fitting to look after Eames since Eames looked after him.

Eames makes soft half-pained, half-pleased noises in the back of his throat as Arthur presses his fingers and thumbs and the heels of his hands into tight knots in Eames' back. "My god," Arthur murmurs, running his thumbs down the length of Eames' spine. "You need to relax more." The knots are deep coils of stress, and it takes a lot of working to free up the muscles.

After a while Eames' eyelids flutter shut and he says in a sleepy-relaxed voice, "We should go away. Inez has offered her villa in Cannes for as long as we want. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a change of scenery. Although," he says, cracking an eye open, "there might be something there. For me. Just a quick job. With your permission."

Arthur stills. "Illegal, then."

"Do I do anything else?"

Arthur hums. "Not really." He thinks about Cannes at this time of year and spending it in a private villa, sunning himself by the pool (not that Arthur's sure he's into sunning himself by a pool, but he thinks he might like to give it a go at least), cocktails and parties. Arthur has always liked Cannes, even with all the tourists. Maybe because of all the tourists, because it's easy to blend into a place with a transient population. "What is this job?"

"I don't have to do it," Eames says. "Even if we go, I don't have to do it."

"What is the job?" Arthur repeats, a little impatiently. He pushes down perhaps a little harder than necessary with his thumb and Eames yelps. "Sorry," he says but doesn't feel particularly apologetic.

"Picking up a necklace and delivering it across town."

"Does picking it up involve liberating it from someone's villa first?"

Eames spreads his hands. The gesture looks ridiculous when his hands are resting on the bedspread above his head. "Well if it involved just being a courier then anyone could do it, right? It's... part of a thing. These two women have a thing and part of that thing involves stealing art and jewellery from each other. I've mentioned to both that it would be easier to just borrow what they want from each other, but where's the fun in that?"

Arthur stills. "Really? People actually do that?" he says incredulously. What kind of idle rich person do you need to be to seek that kind of entertainment?

"Mm-hm." Eames rolls his shoulders as Arthur slides his hands up to his neck and for a moment Arthur is captivated by the shift of muscle beneath skin. He's glad Eames can't see his face as he openly leers. "Don't worry, the risk of me being thrown in the clink is negligible. Both women know what they're doing. It's... foreplay, of sorts."

Arthur nearly chokes. "Foreplay?"

He watches the side of Eames' face crease in a smile. "Hey, don't judge what gets people off. Some people would call what we've been doing for the past six weeks foreplay too."

*

Three days later they go to Cannes.

Eames rarely asks for anything - apart from the usual, the predictable, the thing Arthur will not give him - and Arthur rather fancies a break himself, so it doesn't feel like it's spoiling the terms of the contract to let Eames have this. However, Arthur does feel like some kind of magnanimous douchebag when he tells Eames that if he still wants to do the job he's been offered, he can, and Eames gives him a look as if to say 'oh, well aren't you the generous one?'

With one of his verified false IDs, Arthur rents a very sensible Peugeot 407 coupe, which Eames makes digs about from the moment he sees it - "Really, Arthur? Really? This is the best you could manage?" - but is still more than happy to drive all the way to Inez's villa. Perhaps it's the illusion of freedom that being behind the wheel gives Eames, but when Arthur offers to schedule in a driver change Eames shoots him a horrified look and clutches the keys to his chest protectively.

For a moment or two Arthur can't decide whether or not he should be offended, but ultimately decides it's not worth the effort since he's not a massive fan of casual driving outside of dreams anyway.

Instead he thoroughly enjoys relinquishing control and relaxing in the passenger seat as Eames settles in behind the wheel. Arthur drives the radio instead – one of their few points of true common ground in the beginning of this arrangement had been Arthur's taste in music, so when Arthur pops in a CD he burnt especially for this leg of the trip Eames flashes him a smile. What little conversation they have is light and easy and for a little while Arthur can forget that their roots are in anything other than two people going on a roadtrip. He enjoys this casual, friendly time spent with Eames, despite the relaxed warmth in his chest disturbing him somewhat. Even though he and Eames challenge each other intellectually, and professionally their personal styles mesh surprisingly well, take away the depth (and the spite and the point scoring) to leave the frivolous and silly and somehow they still work.

It's uncanny. It should be ridiculous.

Arthur suspects that if they can survive each other for the duration of this contract, then together they could make quite a formidable team.

He enjoyed working with Cobb, but for all his erratic brilliance, Cobb had only faced down the dangerous jobs they took on to pay his lawyer's fees, not because he loved the criminal aspect of the job. Arthur doesn't necessarily enjoy being a criminal, but it's not a choice he's unhappy with since the options he's presented with – in extraction, in militarisation and in non-dream share contracted work – are infinitely more interesting and compelling than anything he could do legally.

Eames, in contrast to Cobb, had been a felon right from the moment he left his parents home with everything of value that he could carry. He'd been forced into the military and then Project Somnacin as an alternative to jail, and when he'd been discharged, he'd fallen easily back into being a career criminal, now with a far broader range of marketable skills.

As the inception job proved, Eames is the best at what he does. Arthur really does enjoy working with the best. He contemplates Eames' profile as he files the thought away for future consideration (since it relies on them getting through this contract without killing each other first).

They're a half hour out of Lyon when Arthur says, "This job, how long have you had it lined up for?" He means it casually, curiously, but Eames shoots him a glance, his brow raised.

"You mean, how long have I been hiding it from you?"

"No," Arthur says. "I don't actually." He's toed his shoes off and pushed the seat back as far as it goes, and has his legs crossed up against the dash. It looks ridiculous, but he's comfortable.

Eames gives him a long, steady look, long enough that Arthur's about to suggest he keep an eye on the road and the approaching curve, when Eames' mouth quirks like he's decided to take Arthur's question at face value. "Claudette called last week. Apparently word has gotten 'round that I'm in France."

"You don't seem so happy about that." And he doesn't, his voice clipped, his mouth pulled down on one side and hands tightening on the wheel.

"There are enough people that I owe various things to looking for me, for me to prefer my whereabouts not to be common knowledge--"

Arthur frowns. "You mean, apart from...?"

"Well, there are those, but you're taking care of that, aren't you? But that being said, a man like me will always have someone after him."

"Is this something I should be concerned about?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course 'honestly'." There's something about Eames' reaction that concerns Arthur a little. It's not that he thinks Eames is flat out lying, but he doesn't feel Eames is telling the whole truth either which bothers Arthur more than he ever expected (more than Eames' reaction), because he hoped that Eames would be able to trust him with the whole truth by now, instead of still only doing it by halves. Arthur's gaze falls to the yellowing bruise on Eames' jaw and for a sudden, sharp moment he wonders.

Eames shoots him another long look; with one brow raised and his faint smile it's like he knows exactly what Arthur's thinking. "At this point in time? I don't think so." He sounds sincere. "Arthur, if you were in danger in any way, I promise I would tell you. Cross my heart." And he does. Then he adds solemnly, "I'll even pinky swear if you want."

Arthur can't help smiling a little as he shakes his head, because for better or worse he does trust Eames with his own safety. "That won't be necessary." Eames would tell him, he believes that. Maybe not straight away, and maybe not after Eames has tried to deal with it himself, but he would tell Arthur. Eventually.

"So about this job," Arthur says.

"It'll take a couple of days max to complete and pays excellently," Eames says and grins. "Apparently I'm in the budget."

Arthur stares.

"Oh, for sure, they budget for these little games. If you've got the disposable income to throw away on a high cl--world class thief, why wouldn't you?" Eames' airy grin falters at his slip and then a little more when he realises Arthur didn't miss it. "It's not what you think," he says, immediately on the defensive.

"And what do you think I think?" Arthur challenges.

"Claudette and Maire pay very handsomely for services rendered. Sometimes it's a jewellery or art theft, sometimes it's... company. I've been doing this for years, Arthur, since long before--"

"I know when it started." Three months before Eames turned sixteen, when the last of the carefully hoarded money from what he'd stolen from his father and the account his mother had secretly set aside for him had run out. Old Man Parkinson from the paper shop downstairs who Eames rented his broom cupboard from had taken payment for outstanding rent from the boy's body.

Eames shoots him a disgusted look. "That's not what I meant," he says and at his disappointment Arthur feels an unexpected stab of shame, hot and sickly in the back of his throat. Eames drums his fingers on the steering wheel and Arthur wonders if he'll let it pass or have a go. "What I meant," he says with a hint of venom (and it looks like he's gone for a little from column A, a little from column B), "is that I have been working for Maire and Claudette in this capacity - both as a thief and a lover - for years. Since long before the first time I ever worked with you illegally. I enjoy their company and I enjoy their little games and I enjoy being their go between. They are exceptional women and god knows it's some of the easiest, most enjoyable work I have ever done. So please, please Arthur, by all means, be as judgemental as you like."

Arthur bites down on the inside of his lip and stares out the car window as the ensuing silence turns frosty.

This trip was a terrible idea. They're not even six hours out of Paris and already Arthur's put Eames offside with him.

He knows it's his fault for jumping on Eames and not letting him finish but god, what else was he meant to think? (Reluctantly Arthur has to consider that it could be him who is the problem here: he's not stopping to think, to remember that little by little each day he's learning the real truth to who Eames is, out of everything he's assumed or taken for granted.) He steals a glance sideways at Eames, who hides his cold anger behind a bland façade.

Two months ago, Arthur wouldn't have been able to detect that hidden depth to Eames' feelings; any assumptions to Eames' state of mind with an expression like that could only ever be a guess. He's learning the finer tells in Eames' reactions just as Eames is learning his and at this rate they'll soon know each other better than anyone. While Arthur doesn't know how Eames feels about that, frankly it scares Arthur witless just how okay he is with it.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey look, I shouldn't have made assumptions like that. It wasn't my place."

There isn't any easing of the tension in the line of Eames' jaw. "No, it wasn't," Eames says shortly. "This whole situation is difficult enough without you judging me for things I did years ago, Arthur. This - us - it's difficult enough. And I know that's part of the point, but please try to understand that I'm trying to be - to be who I need to be to fix this, everything, and constant references to my... unorthodox youth are unhelpful at best."

It's unexpectedly blunt and honest, and Arthur bites his lip. Eventually he reaches out and curls his fingers around Eames' hand. "I'm sorry."

Eames glances down at Arthur's hand on his and the chill in his gaze thaws somewhat. "I know."

*

Arthur wakes face down in a soft pillow, completely disoriented. It takes him a moment to even remember where he is - for a dreamer he's always been relatively grounded, his totem sufficient back up for the few moments he assumes unusual, so he doesn't immediately doubt his reality on waking. Then: ah.

Cannes, the Cote d'Azur, humouring the request of Eames.

The bed spills over with bedding that he's kicked aside during the night, the single white sheet that remains tucked around his waist. It's already warm with the morning sun on the window, sunshine limning the edges of the curtains. The room is different to what Arthur prefers in a bedroom, light instead of dark, all airy materials and pale colours that don't allow him to roll over and fall back asleep.

They had arrived in Cannes sometime around midnight, Arthur dozing against the car window. He'd been woken by Eames' gently shaking his shoulder, saying softly, "C'mon Arthur, we're here." He only remembers fragments after that; stumbling blearily inside, Eames' hand on his shoulder to guide him. It had seemed an interminable walk to get to a place to lay down, Eames helping him strip out of his clothes (Arthur complaining in a slurred mumble the whole time - how had he been so tired? - as he wondered why this felt familiar) and tucking him into bed.

Arthur rolls over. He certainly needed the rest, that's for sure, and now he's awake he couldn't go back to sleep even if he wanted to. He slides out of bed, hitching his soft cotton pyjama pants higher on his hips as he pads out of the room. "Eames?" he calls softly. There's no reply.

The bedroom next to his is vacant, and Arthur wanders curiously through the first floor, peering through doorways until he reaches the staircase. There seems to be plenty of bedrooms; all vacant, all just like his decorated expensively in a mishmash of styles. He wonders where Eames slept as he heads down the stairs to the living area.

Which is far, far too big for just two people. Between the assorted couches and nooks, Arthur guesses there must be enough accommodation for 16 or 18 people. Ridiculous, he thinks. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

There's a door leading outside in the living room, opening out onto the pool deck. A splash of water dries on the timber at the edge of the pool and Arthur sees Eames stretched out in the sun on one of the recliners not too far from the door, reading Le Monde and drinking a cup of tea. A half-eaten croissant is on a plate on the little table next to him. It's impossible to miss his shirtlessness or the white towel tucked around his waist, and as Arthur watches, a drop of water drips from his wet hair and gamely makes its way across sun-warmed skin.

Eames looks up at the scuff of Arthur's feet against the boards, squinting against the sun. "Morning, Arthur," he says. "How did you sleep?" He reaches out and pats the recliner next to his. "Pull up a seat."

"Mm, good," Arthur says, settling down on the seat. "I needed it. You?"

"Oh, excellent. It's nice to sleep in a bed again," Eames says. He flicks Arthur an arch look and says, "I'm not blaming you for that, Arthur, you're no more likely to own a two bedroom flat than I am, but I'm just saying: it's nice to sleep in a bed again." He grins then, catching the tip of his tongue between his teeth. "Are you hungry? I can get Andre to bring you out some breakfast."

"Andre?"

"He's our chef-slash-housekeeping-slash-pool boy." Eames' grin widens and Arthur wonders what this Andre must look like to make Eames' eyes twinkle like that, just a little bit naughty. "Ah, here he comes now."

Andre, it turns out, is a lovely gentleman in his late sixties who lives in the staff quarters with his equally lovely wife Mariana. The elderly couple have lived at the villa all their married life. "It's not hard work," Mariana confides to Arthur later, "even when the villa is full, we are never worked into the ground. Inez always has such wonderful guests." (She reminds Arthur of Mal a little, and he thinks wistfully that had Mal been given the chance to grow old she might have turned out just like Mariana.)

Andre is clearly an exceptional chef, even if Arthur's first experience of his cooking is breakfast. He asks for toast, Andre brings him that and baked tomatoes and bacon and eggs and spinach. It's very English and reminds Arthur a lot of Eames' breakfast, though distinctly lacking in the levels of hangover-killing grease. Not that this is a bad thing.

"Do your friends live far from here?" Arthur asks, once he's sated the growl in his stomach. He's not a big fan of breakfast, but the moment he'd smelled the food Andre had cooked, his stomach roared to life and his only thoughts had been to put as much food in his stomach as possible. Andre had grinned like he knew exactly what Arthur was thinking.

"Maire has a villa up on Chemin Rural de la Croix des Gardes and Claudette's house is in La Californie--"

"They don't live together?"

Eames laughs. "No, they tried that once. Claudette nearly killed Maire within the first six months. Something to do with a barbeque fork and fourteen stitches, so I hear."

Arthur stares.

"They're both very passionate women," Eames says, as if that's an explanation.

"I guess hence the stealing back and forth?"

Eames turns the page on his paper. "I don't judge the things people do to show their love," he says loftily.

Arthur laughs. "You just reap the profits?"

"Of course," Eames says and grins slyly. "I'm me, after all." Then he pulls a face. "No profits on this one, though. It's all for you this time around."

While he doesn't sound particularly disappointed, Arthur knows Eames too well by now to assume that what he's showing Arthur is the real thing, so Arthur dabs his mouth with his napkin and says in all seriousness, regardless of how impulsive it is, "Then let me do the job for you."

Eames stares, askance. "What?"

"I'll do it. I want to do it." Arthur's surprised to find he really does want to. The theft of physical objects in the real world has never really been his thing, but he knows he's got the skills. Eames could coach him with anything difficult he might need to know. How hard could it really be?

*

First Eames says no. A flat out no, like he doubts Arthur's abilities, like he thinks Arthur is completely incapable of a simple thing like breaking into a villa and stealing a goddamned necklace. Arthur is, quite frankly, offended by the lack of faith.

Eventually Eames says, "I'll think about it," and Arthur is struck by how ridiculous it is that he's even asking. By the terms of their contract he could quite easily give Eames an ultimatum: Arthur does the job or there is no job, but he doesn't want to deliver an ultimatum. By order Arthur knows Eames would let him do it, but he'd resent Arthur bitterly, as part of him has ever since he agreed to the contract (oh, Arthur knows 99% of the time Eames is just fine, but it's still there inside him, like a thorn festering under his skin).

No, Arthur won't order Eames. He needs Eames' cooperation and knowledge, not the off-chance that he'd 'forget' something significant and fuck it all up for Arthur.

From the moment Eames reluctantly concedes to consider it, he watches Arthur like a hawk. What he's looking for only he knows, but Arthur's surprised that the scrutiny doesn't bother him even half as much as it would have weeks ago.

It's not sexual, it's speculative. It's studying and intense and even though Arthur isn't bothered it still takes all of his willpower to go about his day as per normal; which, he concedes, would be a hundred times easier if they were still in Paris, where he has a familiar routine to follow. Instead, here in Cannes, he acts like nothing is different with Eames, that he's not quieter than usual as god knows what thoughts tick over inside his infuriating skull.

They're at a cafe in the heart of Cannes when Eames pulls a pen from his pocket. He snags a napkin and sketches a quick map. "This," he says, "is where Maire's villa is. I'll drop you off here," he marks the spot with an x, "and wait near the gate for when – or rather, just in case you set the alarm off and need rescuing."

Arthur's too surprised at Eames' change of heart at first to be offended by Eames' assumption on potential rescue. Then he says a belated, "Hey...!"

"It's for your own safety. If you're caught then Maire will need to know as soon as possible that you're with me and not just some common criminal."

Okay, he has a point. Arthur nods. "Fair call," he concedes.

Eames quickly sketches an outline of a necklace on a fresh napkin. It's a pretty thing, flat links studded with tiny diamonds. "The panel links from here around to here are all filigree - you won't be able to mistake this for anything else in Maire's collection, I can tell you that now." The napkin is set aside. "Now this is a rough floor plan of Maire's villa. She lives in this section--" a few quick lines on another napkin, "which you can access here and here. Best point of access – providing she hasn't changed everything up – is this hallway. If she's changed everything up then you'll have to improvise like its zero gravity again. If not, you have to be extremely careful here, because there is nowhere to hide from the guards on rotation, and Maire keeps individually secure paintings all the way along the hallway."

He pulls a face. "Found that out the hard way when I timed a rotation too close, misjudged how slippery the marble floor was and slid straight into a Van Gogh. They made me pay for that one handsomely."

"Oh?"

Eames gives him a long look, a slow smirk turning up the corners of his mouth. "Oh," Arthur says, and silently curses the blush that heats his ears. Arthur could imagine what payment they would take from Eames' skin, but he doesn't want to. Imagine, that is. That way lies madness.

Arthur clears his throat. "Anyway," he says, "the hallway."

"The hallway leads to Maire's rooms - there's a safe in the south wall behind a painting about yea big," he gestures with his hands, "and you'll need this for the combination." Eames sets a small black box with an LED screen on the table by the napkin. "If the necklace isn't in the safe - top shelf only, do not touch anything else in there - it'll be in a locked wooden case on the dresser next to the safe. Make sure you disable the silent alarm that runs on a separate circuit off the case first before trying to pick the lock otherwise its game over."

Arthur stares at Eames in bemusement. He can't believe they're sitting in a cafe in Cannes casually planning a jewellery heist on napkins, for crying out loud. Eames grins a little at the expression on Arthur's face. "Tonight we can scope out the property, check and see if there's been any new security measures added since last time. I know a few good ways in that I doubt have been picked up on yet."

"And that's how you do this every time?" Arthur demands. "Vague planning on napkins and a few hours of surveillance?"

"It's the nature of this game, darling, it wouldn't be any fun if we treated it like a job. There is a time limit, after all, and if I - we - don't stick to it, we won't get paid and Claudette will be very mad at me. At us. Mainly at me." He pushes the small pile of napkins and the device across the desk. "Oh, if you end up having to crack the safe, you'll need to add numbers to what this thing'll show. Four, seven, nine, two and leave the last number as is."

"Four, seven, nine, two, zero," Arthur parrots back, fixing the numbers in his mind.

Eames flashes him a grin. "That'll disable the alarm on the safe and then open it. If you just pop in the code as is, you'll open the safe, but you'll have security on you in about five seconds flat. That was a vicious trick." Then Eames' tone changes subtly. "You can do this, though. I know you can."

His faith is touching, even if his tone is reluctant confidence.

As they talk, Arthur slowly becomes aware of a young man sitting a few tables over giving him the eye. God knows Arthur's picked up enough strange men in his time to know when someone's casing him for sexy reasons, and this young man definitely is. He's handsome, with a mop of curly brown hair and a sharp jaw line. His gaze is direct as he looks at Arthur, clearly dismissing Eames as a non-entity, which makes Arthur suddenly indignant on Eames' behalf, because Arthur knows - has seen - just how desirable Eames can be to men and women alike.

And just because Eames mightn't be this young man's type, doesn't mean Eames isn't Arthur's type. Eames is a chameleon with his looks in real life (even as he forges whole new faces in dreams), but he's always in some form been Arthur's type, because he's Eames. Arthur scowls suddenly when he realises the line his thoughts have taken and ugh, that's not - it can't be true, right? Just because Arthur is attracted doesn't mean Eames is his type.

The young man rightly interprets his scowl being towards Eames, but even he couldn't ascertain why. He takes it as his sign to uncoil himself from his chair and slink over to Arthur's table.

"I can't help but notice you, handsome man," he says, his voice a low purr as he leans forward towards Arthur, hands braced on the table. He speaks heavily accented English, even though Arthur and Eames had been conversing in French.

Eames leans back, raising a brow at the young man's words and brash approach, his hand sliding casually to cover the pile of napkins and the incriminating evidence contained on them and Arthur awkwardly shifts in his chair. He'd expected the approach, but this he's even more forward than Arthur had suspected he would be. Younger too, young enough that he looks like he'd be barely able to shave two days in a row. Why he thinks Arthur would be interested in someone barely out of puberty, he doesn't know. He likes men. Not children.

"Can we help you?" Eames asks in a painfully polite tone.

The guy completely ignores Eames and Arthur has to bite his cheek on a laugh at the flicker of disbelief in Eames' eyes, the faint arch of his brow. "Handsome man," he says again, "maybe we go elsewhere alone?" Then he gives Arthur a smouldering look which, Arthur has to admit, looks good on him. In any other situation Arthur might even have had some interest in the easy fuck the young man is offering (once he'd carded him for his age, of course, Arthur's not going to fall into that trap).

Arthur feels Eames tense up beside him.

He flicks Eames a glance and then realises that Eames isn't tense out of anger or annoyance, he's tense because he's trying not to laugh. Laugh at this poor guy who thinks he's terribly sexy and at Arthur who could almost go along with him just to shut Eames up. Except he doesn't, because Arthur honestly doesn't want to have sex with this man and he still feels an uncomfortable twinge of guilt about making Eames unhappy – even though he knows he shouldn't feel like that, not really, because nowhere in all of this did they make an agreement that Arthur would be responsible for Eames' emotional wellbeing as well as his financial wellbeing.

"I am very flattered," Arthur finally says, after the pause has drawn out to the point of being damn awkward, "but—but I’m here with my friend," and he reaches out and curls his fingers around Eames' wrist. Eames makes the faintest of hiccupping noises as he struggles not to laugh. Without looking away from the young man's crestfallen face, Arthur digs his fingernails into the soft skin inside Eames' wrist. "Thank you, though," he says and softens the rejection with a smile.

If, of course, it's possible to soften rejection. The young man draws himself up, looks wistfully at Arthur, scornfully at Eames and then ruins all attempts at dignity by flouncing off.

This time Eames makes less of an effort not to laugh and Arthur digs his nails in harder until Eames yelps and pries Arthur's hand off his wrist. "Ow, Jesus! Look – you've made me bleed."

Eames presents his wrist to Arthur and sure enough, there's a spot of blood on his skin. Arthur feels entirely unrepentant. "You deserved it. You were laughing at the poor boy."

"Maybe, but really, his precious little face when he thought he was going to take you home. Or possibly," Eames says thoughtfully, considering the gouges Arthur had left in his skin, "he'd spring for a hotel room with his pocket money, since I'm sure his mother wouldn't like him bringing strange men into the family home."

Arthur shakes his head. "I can't imagine having that kind of front at his age."

"I can – I was exactly like that at his age. I was a right little scamp."

"Why am I not surprised? He didn't think much of you now though," Arthur points out. "Obviously you've grown up old and boring."

Eames leans towards Arthur. "Is that right, handsome man?" he says and the look he gives Arthur isn't smouldering, it's scorching. Arthur's not one with a delicate constitution but he still flushes readily under Eames' steady gaze, feeling his skin prickle all over and his heart leap from his chest to his throat.

"That – that's not fair," he finally says. "You've got a good decade's worth of experience on him."

Eames grins, sharp and knowing. "Not the point. You were the one who'd said I'd grown up old and boring." He leans back, his expression settling back into something neutral, familiar.

Although when Arthur meets Eames' gaze, he can still see hints of the warmth and his skin prickles all over again.

*

That Arthur gets caught is through no one's fault but his own. He can't blame any shoddy investigative skills on Eames, or a desire to see him get caught, because this? This has nothing to do with Eames.

Oh, the sensor - small and independent and not hooked up to the same power supply as the main motion sensors - wasn't on their plans, but Eames had warned him and it's still obvious enough that Arthur should have seen it. The fact that it wasn't something he should have tripped anywhere on the path to or from Maire's rooms is beside the point.

Its set at the side of a large painting by a post-war British artist Arthur would know anywhere. It's 'Beach at sunset': two women - one pale, one dark - walking away along the edge of the water holding hands, the sky stained red and yellow and blue and lavender. In the distance a curl of city cradles the beach, already lit up with the oncoming night.

Arthur reaches out and runs his fingertips reverently over Eames' signature.

He's so startled by the alarm that he nearly trips over his own feet, bolting straight into the arms of Maire's security. Don't hurt them, he remembers Eames' words, but it's difficult and goes against every grain of Arthur's being to just let himself be taken.

He holds his hands up, but the guards are still rough as they grab him, one twisting his arm behind his back, the other pinning his other wrist and patting him down for weapons.

He's marched through the villa to a living area, where a woman waits expectantly. She's not quite as tall as Arthur (even in heels), stereotypically Irish with her long red, red hair the same shade as curl of paint on the tiny pale woman in 'Beach at sunset'. This must be Maire.

She looks surprised and uneasy to see Arthur. Clearly she was expecting her security to catch a very different light-fingered visitor.

Before she can make demands of him, though, Arthur hears a familiar voice call from the direction of the front door, "Maire?"

The woman turns her head. "William?" she says, startled. "Wait here." She gestures sharply at the guards holding Arthur's arms and turns, her heels clicking on the polished granite floor as she heads away, towards the foyer. For fucks sake, Eames is never going to let him live this down. He can imagine the smug smirk that will be on Eames' stupid face the moment he sees him, bailed up by security like some kind of petty thief.

There's a pause before Maire returns, Eames in tow. He's changed clothes since Arthur last saw him an hour before, from his usual clashing casual into a well-tailored black suit with an ash grey shirt, open at the collar. He looks immaculate. He looks stunning. He looks gorgeous.

Arthur stares openly.

Maire has her arm linked through Eames' and Arthur can tell by the warm way she looks at him that she appreciates the view too. Arthur can't help the flare of jealousy, of competition, though he's not sure if it's because it's Eames or because he's usually the one receiving such appraising looks (Arthur's got a streak of vanity, he can admit that).

Then again, this woman has even slept with Eames, which is more than Arthur can say. How do you even compete with that? Right. You don't.

Arthur lets it go. It's not as easy as he might have thought.

"You say you know this man?" Maire demands of Eames as they stop only metres away.

Eames isn't smirking like Arthur had expected; instead he looks at Arthur with a gleam in his eye that says 'I could just leave you here, hang you out to dry, if I wanted to.' Arthur raises his chin. It's not a dare, but it could be. Eames flicks him a sharp grin before schooling his expression and turning back to Maire. "I do. I can vouch for him--"

"Claudette never said anything about stealing your art, William. I thought it was off the table after that incident with Donovan."

"It was. It is." Clearly startled, Eames turns to glance at Arthur, brow raised. It's not something Arthur is willing to explain right here, so he deflects by mouthing 'William?' to which Eames shrugs. Obviously, to Maire and Claudette he's William. "Whatever happened, it definitely wasn't in the rules--"

"Which, I would suggest, you broke first by letting this novice in my house. I don't imagine Claudette sanctioned this - this stranger to go through my things?" Maire gestures angrily at Arthur.

Eames' gaze doesn't shift from Arthur's as Maire speaks, and he can't have missed the spasm of annoyance across Arthur's face at her use of the term 'novice'. Arthur mightn't be a world renowned thief of all that's fancy and expensive (and some things that aren't) like Eames, but his role as point man means he needs to be able to get in and out of places undetected so he could be, if he wanted to. Which he doesn't.

"No, Claudette didn't know about this change. It was my decision. But he's most definitely not a novice, Maire, my darling, no matter what this little incident might indicate. I would never, ever send somebody I didn't trust in to your homes. As for this? I can only assume he must have let himself get... distracted."

"William," Maire says crossly. "Give me one good reason not to turn him in for breaking and entering. Who is this man?"

Eames still doesn't look at her. His gaze sweeps over Arthur and the two security guards and his mouth twitches. Now there's a fucking twinkle in his eye. "He's... well, Maire, he's my..." Eames stops, rubs at his mouth. Eventually he shrugs, helplessly, with a silly grin. "Arthur."

"He's your... 'Arthur'?" Maire says. She looks at Arthur sharply then to Eames.

Eames says, "Well yes, in a way he is, I guess," and now he looks away from Arthur, looking down and Arthur can't quite see the expression on his face.

Maire must be able to from where she stands. "Release him," she says to the guards, then: "Release him!" when they don't move quickly enough for her.

*

While things appeared to be perfectly fine between Arthur and Eames at Maire's villa, it's painfully obvious to Arthur once they're back in the car that things are actually... somewhat less so.

"Maire seems nice," Arthur says. She'd warmed up to him immediately and extensively and before he even knew it he was telling her all kinds of details from one of his elaborately made up lives. She was definitely a sly one, because Arthur hadn't even realised he was giving her so information much at first until he'd seen the amused looks Eames kept directing at him.

There's no amusement now. "Yeah," Eames says, "She's great."

Arthur blinks. Okay then. "I can see why you like her so much. I'm looking forward to meeting Claudette tomorrow too," he proposes tentatively, testing the water. Maybe Eames had only sounded cranky, maybe he wasn't actually as irritated as the short tone implied.

This time Eames just grunts. Okay, clearly yes, he is exactly as irritated. Arthur sighs and stares out the window into the darkness. He'll do what he normally tries to do and roll with it.

Things come to a head when they return to the villa. Eames doesn't look at Arthur, won't even speak to him until they're inside. When Eames heads straight to the bar, Arthur's pretty sure he'll finally get an answer to Eames' terrible mood. He'll let Eames have a few if it'll loosen his tongue.

It doesn't even take that much.

"Would you care to explain what actually happened in there, Arthur? Last time I looked, a handful of platinum and diamonds were not easily mistaken for a slap of paint on canvas." The crystal brandy decanter rattles loudly against the rim of Eames' tumbler as he splashes it half full of liquid, tosses it back and fills the cup again.

Arthur stills as he watches Eames brace himself on the bar, distracted more than a little by the fine line of Eames' shoulders under the jacket, the way the trousers cup his ass and fit perfectly down his surprisingly muscular thighs. It's some truly exceptional tailoring, Arthur thinks distractedly, hauling his gaze back up around face level.

"It was simple enough," Eames starts, picking up the tumbler and turning, "and yet you fucked it up."

Arthur's not going to let himself be baited. His hands are quick on the buttons of his shirt as he pulls the collar open, revealing the thin platinum filigree links resting against his skin. Diamonds wink in the lamp light.

Eames inhales sharply and then he's there, right in front of Arthur, fingers gentle and careful as he lifts links of the necklace away from Arthur's skin. He's still angry though, even though Arthur got the necklace before he was caught, even when Arthur reaches up to unclasps it, dropping it into Eames' hand and holding up his end of the agreement.

Eames stares down at the sparkling jewellery in his hand, his mouth set in an irritated line. "Getting distracted is so unlike you, Arthur," he says shortly. "Why did it happen?"

"Why are you still angry?" Arthur counters defensively. "I got what you needed me to--"

"Yeah, and then you nearly blew it all sky high because of some goddamn painting." Eames clenches his fist around the necklace. "Why?"

Some goddamn painting. The words are a lightning-strike moment and Arthur suddenly understands. Some goddamn painting that doesn't mean anything because it's Eames' painting, Eames' original, not any of the other paintings in the hallway, exemplary of Maire's truly exquisite taste in art. Arthur thinks that had it been one of Eames' forgeries, Eames wouldn't be nearly so mad at him.

Arthur's mouth works as he tries to wrap his brain around what Eames is asking him to explain - what Eames doesn't even realise he's asking Arthur to explain. How does he even begin to explain how Eames' paintings make him feel, what they mean to him? And not just him, either, because there are plenty of people willing to do a lot of thing to get their hands on an original; if Eames ever chose to go on the straight and narrow he's got an excellent moneymaking skill right there. "I was just... surprised," he says lamely, "to see it there."

Oh Christ, could he sound any more like he's lying? Eames clearly knows it too as he rolls his eyes. He then makes a truly expressive noise of disgust in the back of his throat and once again turns back to the decanter.

Arthur takes a deep breath. What has he got to lose by telling the truth? Eames is the one who places no value on his own art, whereas Arthur knows the reality of the demand for it; the unfinished works in sitting in his living room in Paris are the first originals Arthur knows of in years and they'll be his (or so he hopes). He'll pay Eames, of course, every dollar to their value, because he won't just take from Eames and leave him practically a pauper at the end of their contract. Debt free, sure, but practically a pauper.

"Because it's not just 'some goddamn painting'," Arthur finally says. "Because I've never seen 'Beach at sunset' before." It's difficult to keep the thrill from his tone, the joy. God, it had been beautiful. "I've only ever seen photos of it - and it's probably your most talked about piece amongst collectors, because no one knows - knew - where it was or anything about it apart from a few shitty camera phone pictures. And even those were touted as fakes. They weren't, by the way."

Eames is staring at him like he's grown a second head. "What?" he says dumbly, holding the tumbler loose in his fingertips.

Arthur steps forward, taking the glass from his hand before he can drop it and placing it on the bench next to the carelessly discarded necklace.

"Your forgeries are second to none, Eames, but your originals are where you excel. But you don't paint to sell - not anymore, not since you--" Arthur hesitates. He's already gotten himself in trouble once this trip by knowing too much of Eames' history. Eames took up painting when he gave up delinquency, and then quit painting when he joined the military. The miserable amounts he earned for his work back then were not nearly enough to live on. "--Since you learned to forge instead. And now anything original you do make is given as gifts, and the people you gift are all unwilling to sell for any sum." Arthur feels in no way bad about the Google Alerts he has set on a number of elderly or high risk gift recipients where he knows their collection will go up for sale on their death or has been willed to a disinterested relative. He may also have written an unobtrusive script that's currently sitting silent on the births, deaths and marriages databases of eleven countries where mind crime is prevalent. It didn't take much to add in a few extra names to the lists of colleagues' known aliases. You know, just in case.

"How do you even know this?" Eames demands and Arthur can't help the blush warming his cheeks under Eames' scrutiny. "Arthur?"

"There's a group of collectors," Arthur says evasively. "Of your paintings."

"...Collectors," Eames says faintly. "I don't understand. My stuff is rubbish, it isn't anything special, it's just what I do to practice techniques. I was told from the start that my talents lay in... reproduction."

Arthur scrubs at the back of his neck, feeling himself getting redder and redder. Christ, this is embarrassing. Why does he have to explain this? Why can't Eames just know how appreciated his original works are? Arthur makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and then takes hold of Eames' wrist, tugging him along after him out to the pool deck, where Arthur had left his laptop that afternoon. He presses Eames down on the lounge, sitting down next to him. They sit thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder.

Arthur drags the little table over so it sits in front of both of them, and it doesn't take long for his laptop to boot up. He goes straight to Yahoo! Groups - seriously, he has been trying to talk the mailing list onto something that doesn't have 'future Yahoo! implosion' written over it in giant neon letters, but fussy art connoisseurs aren't necessarily tech gurus, and since he's sitting on the source of their fascination (not literally, although a foot to his left and--), he's not too fussed. He brings up a sprawling email thread on 'Beach at sunset.'

He angles the laptop towards Eames with a simple order: "Read."

After a moment Eames flicks a glance at him, eyes narrowed. It's difficult to read the finer nuances of his expression out here in the dark, lit only by the laptop screen and the soft lights around the pool. "This is serious?"

"Mm-hm. Every word."

"Who are you on there?"

Arthur smiles faintly and turns the laptop back to face him again, quickly tapping in a quick reply to the thread.

 _I've seen it. It's real and it's in France. The photos don't do it any kind of justice. It's beautiful._

 _\- Richard Banncroft_

When he hits send Eames is watching him, not the screen, leaning close with his gaze intent. "Do you really think so?" he asks quietly.

Arthur nods.

He feels Eames' hand settle on his leg, just above his knee with the feather light touch of his fingertips. "I'm going to kiss you now," Eames warns him softly. "Just a kiss, I swear."

Maybe it's the mood but Arthur doesn't say no, doesn't even think to say no, though Eames gives him all the opportunities in the world. He's too pleased he's been able to give Eames something back that has always been his.

It's intangible, but Arthur knows the value of knowledge. They both do.

Eames leans in towards him hesitantly, hand shifting from Arthur's leg to cup his jaw. His touch is gentle against Arthur's skin. He kisses Arthur then, his mouth soft and hot, lips damp, a hint of brandy on his breath. It's so delicate it steals Arthur's breath away.

True to his word, it's just a kiss, nothing more, and Eames pulls back after a moment, blinking slowly. He smiles, skates his thumb across Arthur's mouth in a way that makes Arthur shiver and then he lowers his hand.

"Thank you," he says with a quiet sincerity that touches Arthur to the quick.

*

Eames is sitting out by the pool, barefoot and in shorts and a t-shirt with a sketchpad in hand when Arthur gets up the next morning, sometime around 11am. On the table next to the plate of crumbs from Eames' breakfast are a few crumpled pieces of paper.

Arthur can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Eames with a sketchpad - they've all been times they've been on a job, with Eames at ends, practising for a job of his own. He'd never had any problems showing Arthur his work then, but there's something almost self-conscious about him now, about the set of his jaw, as Arthur places his coffee down and reaches for one of the balls of paper. Eames' gaze flicks away as he studiously ignores Arthur smoothing the paper flat.

Arthur glances down at the sketch to see himself looking back. It's... it's really good, that goes without saying, but it's almost frightening in its accuracy, its honesty. This is Eames, this is what he does. He reads people, knows them, learns them well enough to sell a mimicry to their nearest and dearest, and he does it well. And in a few lines he's captured all Arthur's careful walls and defences. Arthur can't decipher the feelings behind the twist in his chest, the way his heart suddenly leaps into his throat when he wonders if Eames has figured out the weaknesses in his defences, weaknesses Arthur's not even sure if he knows himself.

Discomforted, he sets the sketch aside, rubbing his thumb across his mouth. He can see from the corner of his eye that Eames is watching him now (sharply, looking for more of those details?) and reaches for another ball of paper. This time it's not himself looking back - and he's not relieved, honest - it's Maire with her hair long and free and cheekily Eames has sketched in the necklace Arthur had stolen for him. The next is a woman he doesn't recognise; maybe this is Claudette. Another, Andre and Mariana in the garden; another, a landscape with glimpse of city and of water, a marina to the side, identifiable by the forest of masts. As Arthur smooths each page he wonders what it is about each of them that has made Eames' unhappy with it, what made him cast it away, because while Arthur might be completely biased when it comes to Eames' original work, he does know what is good art and what isn't, and this? Is good.

Arthur looks down the sheaf of crumpled sketches in his hand, an idea forming. He hesitates, touches his tongue to his top lip then says, "We - you - should sell your paintings. The ones at home. Your new ones."

There's a pause and then Eames glances up from his sketchpad. His expression is mostly bland, but there's a narrowing to his eyes as he contemplates Arthur. "But they were going to be for you. Gifts. A thank you." His mouth twitches minutely. "Even before I knew how much they matter." He looks back to the sketchpad, his pencil once again moving across the paper and Arthur can tell he's smiling properly now from the curve to his face even as he looks down at what he's doing. "To be honest I was rather hoping you'd hate them. Make you hang them on the wall anyway so you'd have to fetch them out every time I came over just to make sure I knew you still had them. I know you, Arthur, you'd feel obliged."

Okay, the swell in Arthur's heart is completely unwarranted. He shouldn't be looking at Eames with that level of fondness for his simple pronouncement, really, it's worse than embarrassing. "That's," he says, stops, and tries again, "well, that's really lovely, Eames, it is and I'm touched, but... you could be making money from them. If you had enough paintings, I genuinely believe you could probably cover all your debts that way."

Eames' pencil stills. "I could," he admits, but doesn't volunteer anything further.

Arthur shifts, leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and considers him. "But you won't," Arthur finally concludes. He mightn't be able to read people like a book the way Eames can, but he can read Eames, and that's all he needs right now. "Will you?" Eames thoroughly ignores him. "Eames?"

Eventually Eames' shoulders sag a fraction. "Arthur."

"Why won't you sell them? I mean, you could whip up a handful more, clear your debts and then you wouldn't have to deal with this--" He gestures between them.

Eames arches a brow at him. There's something faintly scornful in his look that sends a defensive prickle right up Arthur's spine. "I signed a contract," he says eventually. "I honour my deals."

"I'd let you out of it," Arthur counters instantly. And he would. As much as he would never admit it aloud, he's really enjoyed (most of) this time he's spent with Eames, but he would never hold him to this contract if he thought he didn't have to. He wishes he'd thought of Eames' paintings before this, it could all have been so different if he'd been able to offer it up to Eames as a solution back in New York before the contract.

"Of course you would." It's as dismissive a tone as Arthur's ever heard from him. He watches as Eames' mouth curves down in irritation and he tears away the page he's working on, scrunching it up and tossing it onto the table. (Arthur rescues it, flattens it out over his knee. It's a perfectly lovely sketch looking over the pool and Mariana is in the garden, reaching up to pat a small black and white cat sitting on the corner post of the stone fence.)

"Eames?"

The irritation is directed Arthur's way now. "I don't want to," Eames says and Arthur can't help but prod at him.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to," he snaps and slaps his pencil down on the table, followed by the sketchpad.

"Why?" Arthur presses and Eames jerks to his feet.

"Why does it matter?" he demands. He's like a dog at the end of its chain, pacing a restless half-circle around Arthur. He could leave, go inside, but for some reason he doesn't. It's almost like he can't.

Arthur stares at him. He can't believe Eames even has to ask why it would matter. Eames, who racked up so many gambling debts he sold almost everything he owned to try and cover it; Eames, who'd lost even Saito's payment for the inception job chasing his losses; Eames, who'd fucking whored himself out to keep himself out of a cheap pine box. Arthur knows how the contract - how being indebted to Arthur like this - chafes at his free spirit. He can't understand why Eames wouldn't do everything he possibly could to end the obligation.

"Because..." Arthur stops. "It matters because," it comes to him suddenly, the truth why it matters, and he swipes a hand over his face and continues reluctantly, "I don't want you to hate me by the end of this." Rallying against the sentimentality, he adds, "I know you probably won't want to see my face again after this, but I'd really like us to be able to work together in the future."

Eames' expression softens and he stops in his tracks. "Well, I couldn't hate you, for starters," he points out in a rational tone, his tone at odds with his expression, "since you will have just helped me pay off my biggest ever debt. And you know I like to work with the best, so--"

"But if we quit this now you wouldn't be indebted to me either. You'll have solved your problems yourself."

"Arthur," still with that reasonable tone, "even if we called off the contract right this instant, I'd still owe you."

"But you could--"

"I can't," Eames starts. He scrubs his hand over his face and drops back into his chair. "I can't do it. I can't just churn out new pieces, original pieces. No matter how much you think they'd sell for, I just can't do it. It's - I'm not inspired like that."

"You got on to the ones at home quick enough," Arthur points out. "And there's these." He gestures to the scrapped sketches. Maybe it's because he's not an artist that he feels he's missing something here, the piece of the puzzle that will drop into place and make all of this make sense. He considers Eames like he's research where the conclusions don't add up to the information.

When Eames had come back from his week of disappearance to London with his brushes, he'd been inspired. Frantic, even. So mad to get paint on canvas and wood that he would have forgotten basic human needs as well as everything else around him without Arthur's prompting. When he'd come back to himself, he'd started refining his work. Arthur knows he's already finished one, so there's no reason why he shouldn't be able to--

"Arthur." His name, for a third time, in a slow, unwilling tone. Eames' mouth is really turned down now with unhappiness. "I can't because I don't want to. This," and he runs his fingertip along the edge of his sketchbook, "is something that... has meaning now, thanks to you. It's not just - it's not just something I do sometimes to fill in time and when I can't help myself. I don't want to ruin it by making it into just another marketable service I have to offer." And he gestures to himself, his body as he speaks. Just another marketable service.

Oh.

Eames hesitates and Arthur can almost see the thoughts ticking over in his head. An almost ill expression flickers across his face and then it's gone. He speaks in a low but steady tone, "However I do understand if you wanted out of this and I can--if I had to, I'm sure I could paint enough that--"

"No, Oh Christ, Eames, no. I didn't mean it like that, I'm - this contract, I am okay with continuing it as is, I swear. I had only thought to offer another solution. For what it's worth," he says, "I'm sorry." He's not sure what he's apologising for. He's not sorry he gave Eames belief in his own work, that's for sure, even if it means he won't use it to claw his way out of the debts. While Arthur doesn't quite understand it because it goes against what he thought he knew about Eames and his survival instincts (but it goes against it in a good way), at the same time it sets tiny butterfly wings aflutter in Arthur's chest.

Eames grimaces. "Oh, don't be sorry, darling, it's hardly your fault I feel like being stubborn and contrary."

"It's hardly being stubborn and contrary if you don't want to compromise your beliefs."

"Beliefs? That sounds too much like morals, Arthur. I'm a thief, remember? I don't have morals."

Arthur gives him a look, because what rubbish that is. He knows Eames has a very finely tuned set of morals; they mightn't be the kind of morals that general society might have, or even Arthur himself, but the code Eames lives by can be just as rigid and controlling.

"Don't look at me like that, like I'm a liar," Eames says.

"You are a liar," Arthur points out. "And a thief." He sets the sketch of Mariana down on top of the pile. "Which is possibly why I like you. I've always had terrible taste in friends." He'd never realised how much Eames' moods affected his own, and when Eames finally smiles at his tease, Arthur feels a sense of relief.

The invitation to Maire's is changed at some point during the afternoon to Claudette's for dinner. Eames doesn't look the slightest bit surprised as he takes the call. "Oh," he says to Arthur after he ends the call, "if there's anything at all that I'm surprised about with this, it's that they're even this organised. I was half expecting a call at some time around eight from Maire all cross and asking where we were because dinner was served."

Later, when Eames is shaving - and somehow, in a villa with eight bathrooms, this has to be done in the same one that Arthur is using for his own grooming - he says absently, "Claudette's place is much nicer than Maire's."

"Larger?" Arthur deadpans around his toothbrush.

Eames laughs and splashes water onto his face, skimming his hand over his cheeks for any spots he's missed. "Smaller," he says. "Much. It's... a four or five bedroom penthouse apartment. Expensive, of course, and the location is brilliant, but it is only an apartment." He cleans his straight razor, fitting it back into the timber case and snapping it closed. "Claudette hates rattling around in a villa, and Maire's place was left to her by her late husband which has always caused friction."

One of the things Arthur likes about Eames is that for all this sounds like idle gossip, they both know it isn't. This is Eames' way of offering Arthur a jumping off point when it comes to conversation, something simple that will prevent him from stuffing his foot in his mouth inadvertently. It's clear the villa must be quite contentious issue and that Eames values both Maire and Claudette enough to want to ensure the evening goes smoothly, because Arthur knows the deliberate frictions Eames can cause when he puts his mind to it.

(Arthur could take it a step further and assume Eames is giving him something to ease his way into Claudette's affections the way apparently being Eames' Arthur - whatever that means - did with Maire. He could, but he won't. Because that's not how Eames works and certainly not how Arthur works.)

Eames turns for the door and Arthur's not even thinking as his gaze drops to the curve of Eames' ass visible under thin cotton pants in the reflection as Eames ambles out of the bathroom. Nice.

"Oh," and Eames pokes his head back around the doorway. Arthur jerks his gaze up. "We'll be expected to stay the night, too. They're big drinkers and you know how I feel about drink-driving." He hesitates a moment. "If, of course, I have permission to have more than a glass or two?" There's a thread of sarcasm winding through his tone, but it's not as sharp as it could be.

Arthur raises a brow, before he spits and rinses. "I'll think about it," he finally says and is rewarded with a faint flicker of annoyance. Then he smiles. "Oh god, what do you think?"

"Arthur." Eames rolls his eyes. "You are impossible."

Arthur hides his wider grin behind the towel he wipes his mouth with. "And that's why you like me?"

Running his thumb over his lower lip, Eames shifts and leans against the doorframe considers Arthur leisurely, from head to toe and back again, and Arthur feels his gaze like a touch in the prickle of his skin. "That's one of the reasons," Eames says with a sly grin.

*

Eames was right when he said that Claudette's apartment had lovely views. The gentle hills provide a sprawling view of the bay of Cannes, the white of yachts striking against the deep blue of the ocean. Arthur's seen a lot of wonderful sights in his travels around the globe, but today this one seems particularly lovely.

Not that her apartment isn't lovely in itself. Arthur thinks all this time spent in the French Riviera is giving him ideas, because he finds himself eyeing the beautiful belle époque apartment building with barely concealed envy as they pull into the driveway. He could easily be happy living in a place like this. He doesn't have to live in Paris, after all. He quite enjoys the ultra clement weather and lounging around swimming pools with a glass of fine wine. Once this thing with Eames is done and he's reorganised his own finances, maybe he could rustle up enough loose change to drop an incognito payment on a small place somewhere along the Cote d'Azur. Not necessarily Cannes. He's heard great things about Saint-Tropez and Nice is, well, nice. He doesn't need a villa. He doesn't even need a five bedroom penthouse apartment in La Californie. Just a simple, one or two bedroom place would do.

Hell, he doesn't even need to keep his apartment in Paris if he doesn't want to. It's food for thought.

Eames ushers Arthur up the wide set of stairs to the end of the building to a sunny terrace, with a light hand at the small of his back. A woman in a long white tea dress steps out the sliding door as they reach the top of the stairs and her gaze lights up when she sees Eames.

"William!" she cries, hurrying forward. She throws herself into Eames' arms, laughing joyfully. This has to be Claudette.

What Arthur doesn't expect then is for Claudette to kiss Eames, full on the mouth. It's not a quick kiss, either. It's passionate, it's the kiss of lovers, and Arthur is shocked by exactly how much he hates it. He looks at Eames' hands splayed on her lower back, holding her close and his stomach twists with something very close to jealousy (but it's not quite jealousy, he's sure) and he has to look away, biting his bottom lip hard.

"I have missed you," Arthur hears Claudette say and he glances back to them. It's like Eames has completely forgotten that Arthur is standing right there as he looks at Claudette, his mouth reddened and his eyes warm with desire.

"I've missed you too," Eames says huskily.

Arthur then has to put up with her running her hands possessively all over him, his shoulders, his arms, his sides, over his ass and even a glancing touch across his crotch--god, what. And Eames doesn't even say anything, just laughs and goes a little pink across his cheeks. "See?" she says. "Did I not tell you these clothes would fit better once you trimmed down? You are so much more handsome like this."

Eames laughs again. It's a lighter sound than Arthur's used to.

Belatedly, she notices Arthur standing there, trying not to scowl. Trying. He really is. Her eyes light up. "And you must be William's Arthur."

She's beautiful, Arthur thinks as she regards him, with her black eyes and the cute gap between her front teeth. The necklace Arthur stole is striking against her brown skin and Arthur can't blame Eames for his attraction in the slightest. "Oh, you are a very handsome young man. I can see why William likes you," she says, and then Arthur suddenly has to contend with her all up in his space kissing his cheeks and hugging him close. She smells like jasmine. "Anyone who is a friend of William's is a friend of mine."

Her hands still lightly grip his arms she steps back a little, looking him over. Then Claudette throws a cheeky grin over her shoulder and says, "And he's almost as well-dressed as you, William!"

Arthur nearly chokes and Eames looks like he's about to rupture something inside with the laughter he's suppressing. Arthur glares at him.

"What she means," Eames finally says, a little quaver of humour threading through his tone, "is that you'd look even better dressed in one of her outfits." And he gestures to himself, to the casual shirt and slacks he's wearing, both bearing the particular trademark of the suit last night by being immaculately tailored to his body shape.

If Arthur had been distracted earlier by Eames' ass in his about-the-house pants, he'd been doubly so when Eames came back upstairs, fully dressed, to check if Arthur was ready to leave. He's never seen Eames so well turned out before.

"Oh!" Claudette laughs and pats Arthur's arm. "You do look lovely," she says, "and you have excellent taste, but what William says is true. I am sure I could fit something for you. Maybe I should take your measurements, make you a suit that matches our William's favourite?" She gives him an arch smile, and Arthur realises this is not a woman you say no to. She is all steel, hidden behind a bubbly, outgoing exterior.

"You must come, Maire's waiting inside." She sweeps off, and Eames falls in next to Arthur as they move to follow.

"She's quite something," Arthur says quietly.

Eames looks entirely too smug. "That she is."

The next thing Arthur says sounded entirely more polite when he framed it in his head, however, what actually comes out his mouth sounds all kinds of resentful and possessive. Which, as has already been established, Arthur is most definitely not feeling. "I hope she's not expecting you to sleep with her just because you're here. Because you're not allowed. I won't let you."

Somehow, he's managed to render Eames speechless. Eames stops in his tracks and stares at him. "I'm sorry, Arthur?" He might have rendered Eames speechless, but he can sense the threat of something ugly in Eames' tone.

Arthur winces and attempts to crowbar his foot out of his mouth. "That's--that wasn't meant to come out that way. I'm - I meant that within the terms of our contract, just because I gave you the go ahead to run the necklace job that doesn't mean you get free rein with everything you would normally do--"

Eames suddenly turns and Arthur's reflexes must be slowing or he's becoming far too comfortable around Eames because Eames has him pinned up against the wall by the doorway, forearm pressed across his throat before he can even respond. Arthur feels a sudden, breathtaking surge of want claw up into his chest and his cock twitches as Eames manhandles him, like Arthur's not equally as dangerous. Jesus fuck, how is he even getting turned on by this? This is not one of his things. And yet...

"I know you take great pleasure in controlling every aspect of my life, Arthur, but soon this will be over and--"

Arthur focuses. "Are you threatening me, Eames? You agreed to this--"

"Yeah. I did, didn't I?" The question is rhetorical and right then as Eames moistens his lips Arthur realises Eames isn't angry. Not at all. No, he's hard for it, lust thrumming under his skin as he holds himself carefully away from Arthur, barely touching him but for the press of his forearm and the nudge of the fingers knotted in the front of his shirt against Arthur's chest.

It might be rooted in the over desire from the way Claudette kissed him, but Arthur's sure it's more than that too. Because what Arthur had heard in Eames' tone as he said Arthur's name wasn't a threat of something ugly at all; it was arousal, twisted into something else to conceal it. He was--

God. Was Eames turned on by Arthur's possessiveness? (Was Arthur?)

No. No, he wasn't possessive. Or jealous. He was just reiterating the terms of their contract to ensure Eames didn't assume that he could just--

Arthur inhales sharply as Eames' breath ghosts over his skin, his lips and he's suddenly sure Eames will kiss him.

Except he doesn't. He fucking doesn't.

Instead he takes a deep breath and eases back, stepping away from Arthur and then carefully releasing him. He rakes his fingers through his hair, swipes a hand over his face and Arthur, his shoulders still pressed hard against the wall where he had been pinned, can only watch as Eames puts himself back together.

Eames doesn't apologise (Arthur doesn't expect him to), just tugs on one of his cuffs and glances sideways at Arthur. His eyes are unreadable. "We should go," he says, his voice as level and careless as ever. Arthur smooths his hand down over his rumpled shirt, tucking it back in where it had come loose, as he watches Eames walk away.

Why hadn't Eames pushed it? Arthur knows him, knows he knows how Arthur ticks. Eames is far too aware of how people work not to have realised that Arthur had wanted Eames to kiss him.

It takes Arthur far too long to remember he shouldn't want that.

*

"Here," Eames says, "let me help." He slides out of his chair at the dining table and guides Claudette through to the kitchen with his hand under her elbow.

Arthur can't help but turn to watch them go, watching the way Eames leans solicitously in to her, the way he smiles, he laughs, the way he is very gentle with her - helping and guiding but not taking over. He's very good at being everything anyone might want of him, Arthur thinks. Maybe that's what makes him so good at dream forgery, this talent in the real world for making needs and filling them.

What need of his would Eames try to fill? Arthur can't think of anything; he's self-sufficient, he has the wealth to fill all but his most human of needs and by now most of his needs have transmuted into wants, anyway. He contemplates Eames through narrowed eyes, chewing at the corner of his thumbnail. He can't think even of a need that Eames could have made him have so as to have something to fill.

Except perhaps desire? Desire for Eames is the only thing that Arthur knows he never had before this contract and enforced contact. And it's definitely a want, not a need. He certainly doesn't need Eames, unless it's for a job where he needs a good thief or an excellent forger.

Suddenly Arthur becomes aware of the way Maire is watching him and flushes. "I wouldn't worry," Maire says, mistaking his close interest for something else completely, "they're close, but not in that way." She twirls a curl of hair around her finger. "Except for our... times, Claudette's inclinations are almost exclusively towards the fairer sex. And besides, I would say William is clearly smitten with you."

Arthur blinks.

"Oh come on, Arthur." She reaches out and touches his hand, fingers warm against his. "I don't pretend to know the exact nature of your relationship with our dear William, but it's obvious he cares for you deeply, even if you're only just coming to learn that. Don't feel threatened by myself or Claudette, we are neither anything you need to worry about. We're just both glad he's finding his way."

"I'm not - I'm not jealous, if that's what you're implying," Arthur says defensively, because he isn't, he really isn't. No matter what she thinks of his and Eames' friendship. okay, there was that bit earlier, when they arrived, but that was an isolated incident. The why of Eames is far more interesting now.

She just smiles faintly and raises an elegantly arched eyebrow as if to say, Oh really?

*

"How did the two of you meet?" Claudette asks as she leans forward, topping up Arthur's glass. She directs the question between the two of them.

To say Arthur's surprised when Eames launches into a story very close to the truth would be an understatement. It's the sanitised version, of course, no references to the top secret PASIV technology they make their living subverting these days. But it's still as close to the truth as anyone else will ever come and that surprises Arthur. He hadn't realised that Eames trusted Maire and Claudette this much.

After skimming over vague references to a classified project with a grin, Eames turns the dream they met in into a real life situation; fabricating a fictional operation in Afghanistan and blending it with the real rescue when Eames' SAS team came for Arthur and the remnant of his squad of projections, holed up and being picked off one by one.

Arthur swallows and looks down at his cleaned plate, nudging the cutlery with a fingertip as he remembers the rush of relief he'd felt (they'd survived, he'd survived) as Eames had crouched down beside him, his hands gentle on the filthy dressing on Arthur's thigh. He hadn't said much, just flashed a cheeky grin in a dirty face and said, "You must be Arthur," in an accent far less refined than now.

Arthur had hissed as the sodden bandage pulled away from the wound, but Eames shushed him, reaching out to pat his cheek, saying, "It's okay, mate, you're gonna be fine, I promise."

To Eames' credit - and Arthur's always felt a little strange about this, because Eames is perfectly happy to kill him to his face - Arthur never felt the bullet that kicked him out of the dream.

Then Eames' tale spirals off into a flight of fancy: Arthur returned stateside for recovery and PT, Eames trying to visit Arthur in the field hospital, only to find out he'd already been medevaced. Except Eames gives Arthur a strange look as he says this, the twitch of his mouth to the side before his gaze flicks away from Arthur.

Arthur frowns. He doesn't have a lot of memories from that time; they'd been trialling a new Somnacin compound and Arthur had volunteered to be the guinea pig. He'd reacted badly to it and the rescue mission - while in a dream - had been quite real, in a sense, because Arthur had needed someone else to come under and kick him out. He never once thought it was a dream while he was under, and the recuperation and psychological testing of his recovery from the Somnacin poisoning had been long and gruelling. Sometimes now on the rare occasions he does dream naturally he'll pick up threads of that time woven into a nightmare and he'll wake in a sweat, clutching at his leg.

He's suddenly aware Eames has stopped talking and is watching him. "You never knew?" Eames says. "I came by to see how you were doing a couple of times, but never got past the door." His gaze flicks to Maire and Claudette. "Then one day they said you were gone. You never knew?" he repeats.

Arthur shakes his head slowly. "No one told me." Which is true, if what Eames is saying is true, and that's the thing, isn't it? Arthur can't tell. Except later, when the heat has eased a little and they're up on the balcony, Arthur can't help but bring it up again. "Is it true?"

Eames leans against the rail and swirls the wine around in the bottom of his glass. "Is it so hard to believe I just wanted to know you were okay?"

"You didn't even know me back then," Arthur points out, tipping his head back against the back of the lounge he's sprawled out on. The stars are sharp points of light above them. "I was just some hysterical soldier, whacked out of his mind on Somnacin poisoning. I could barely even string a coherent sentence together when you found me. Not worth a follow up."

"You really believe that?" Eames turns his back to the view of the Cote d'Azur, leaning on his elbows. "I figured different after what I saw in your head. You may have realised by now that I have a thing about working with the best now, and same was true back then. You were brilliant. One of the best Americans in the program."

Arthur snorts rudely. Eames has never thought Arthur brilliant - not now, definitely not then; clearly he's had too much to drink, because Arthur knows Eames' thinks of him as excessively competent yes, intelligent yes, and the best point man in the business, of course, but hardly a great mind. That would require imagination. Arthur says as such.

"Brilliance doesn't always come from creativity," Eames says, shifting restlessly to perch on the edge of the lounge next to Arthur's. He sets his glass down on the ground and looks at Arthur intently. "Tell me: you went to Afghanistan, right?" Arthur nods. "Were you ever in an urban gunfight there? Did you ever get wounded?"

Arthur shakes his head. "We got caught up in the mountains in the Paktia province, setting up an ambush. I caught some shrapnel in my arm, nothing serious."

"As I thought. A year before my talents were channelled into Project Somnacin, I was on a quick response squad tasked with supporting a team of my SAS brothers until the wounded could be casevaced. That was in Sangin. And that's why they sent me in heading the team after you, because I'd been in that situation before. Tight alleys, concrete buildings, raw sewage in the streets. Just like what your mind had built, Arthur, like you'd been there yourself. "

"That hardly makes me brilliant--"

"Take a compliment, Arthur, for God's sake. You were higher than a bloody kite and raving delirious and yet you still managed to build the most realistic streetscape reminiscent of any Taliban-riddled hellhole in Afghanistan." Eames' gaze goes a little distant. "The air even tasted the same..." He shakes himself, blinks, then he's focused on Arthur again. He opens his mouth to speak, but Claudette pops her head around the door and smiles at them.

"Just wanted to let you know your room is ready," she says. "William, it's your usual."

"Thank you, darling," Eames says and smiles sunnily at her. The smile looks incongruous after his serious expression. She grins back and tips an invisible hat to Arthur, before returning inside. "Come on," he reaches out and pats Arthur's thigh. "We can talk about it another time when I'm not practically out on my feet."

*

Arthur always sleeps poorly when it's warm and worse when he's sharing a bed with someone. He's never been good at relationships so it's not something he's had the time to get used to, and this night with Eames is no different. He tosses and turns and seems to wake every hour or so, each time cursing himself for not checking that they'd have separate beds, for not taking Eames up on his offer - however reluctantly made to Arthur - to sleep on the floor.

The first time he wakes he's curled into Eames' broad, bare back, his neck cricked at an awkward, painful angle with his face glued against Eames' shoulder. He knows he should be mortified he's drooled all over Eames in his sleep but his head feels packed full of cotton wool.

"Urgh," he mumbles and shifts and then--oh, oh god, what is his hand doing there? His fingers are pressed into the crease of Eames' thigh where it is unbearably warm, his skin or Eames' tacky with sweat and oh god, Arthur can actually feel the soft curve of Eames' cock against the back of his fingers through the thin cotton of Eames' boxer briefs. It's all Arthur can do not to yank his hand away, instead forcing himself to be casually slow so he doesn't wake Eames as he peels himself away. He turns on his side, back to Eames, his hand curled up against his chest.

When he closes his eyes he can still imagine the feel of Eames' skin.

The next time he wakes he's starfished face down on the mattress, cuddling the pillow to his face. Eames' ankle is hooked over his and his hand is splayed out on Arthur's ass. Arthur groans softly. Of course it is. He's too tired to do anything about it though; he merely shrugs the sheet further down his shoulders so the air from the softly whirring ceiling fan can ghost over his damp skin and sighs his way back to sleep.

The last time Arthur wakes he must be so tired he doesn't register what is wrong (or... different?) for a long moment. Because it seems right, at first, to have arms around him, the heavy weight of a body pressed up against his back. Eames is plastered right along the length of his body, spooned in tight with his arm wrapped around Arthur's waist and his face pressed in against Arthur's neck. Eames' fingers are curled against the skin of Arthur's belly. Perfectly respectable, considering.

Arthur shifts a little and that makes Eames shift too, with a low, faint moan into Arthur's skin. Arthur stops breathing when he feels the thick, hard length of Eames' cock nestled against his ass. Eames is still asleep (Arthur's learnt the hitch in his breathing that he only ever has when he's truly asleep) and his arms tighten around Arthur, sweaty skin slipping wetly together, and he moans again as he rolls his hips, rubbing his cock against Arthur. Arthur bites his lips shut and tries not to react, tries not to focus on how much his own traitorous body is interested in what's going on, then--

"Shit," Eames inhales sharply and mutters in a thick voice, inching backwards. He whispers Arthur's name, the word hanging in the air for a moment, but Arthur forces his breathing smooth and even like he's still asleep and he hears Eames sigh (with disappointment? No, relief, Arthur realises).

Eames slithers out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. He doesn't shut the door fully behind him; Arthur doesn't hear the snick of the lock, but he does hear Eames' string of whispered curses, then a click, then a sigh, then a bitten off moan.

Christ, Arthur thinks as the heat of lust floods through his whole body, his cheeks flushing hot as he identifies the noises: Eames is jerking off in the bathroom.

Arthur curses not lacking the imagination Eames always accuses him of, because he can easily picture Eames fisting his cock, the quick slide of his hand over lotion-slick skin, the head of his cock (flushed and glistening) breaching the curl of his fingers. He'd brace himself against the vanity, boxer briefs twisted and tugged down just enough that he can fuck his hand, the snap of his hips as he pushes his cock into the firm shape of his hand, imagining it's... what would he imagine? That it's Arthur's hand? Arthur's mouth? That he's fucking into Arthur, Arthur's legs wrapped around him, or from behind while Arthur braces himself on the headboard?

Would Eames even imagine it's him at all?

He feels like his hearing has sharpened to inhuman levels, the harsh sound of Eames' breathing, the tiny grunts and moans he doesn't (can't?) stop making a soundtrack to the images burning behind Arthur's eyes. He's hard himself with nothing he can do, except bite down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood and try to will it away. Nothing can ease his own hard on, though, not when Eames is making those soft noises, not when Arthur's brain is feeding him a litany of pornographic imagery and all with Eames' face.

He presses one hand over his mouth, and slides the other under the covers, fingers trailing over his belly where Eames' hand had rested only moments before. He nudges aside his own boxer briefs and wraps his hand around his cock. With one ear alert for the sound of Eames finishing up he squeezes himself, pushing his thumb across the wet slit, breathing heavily against his palm. Christ, it feels sinfully good, ridiculously good and he's close already. For a second his brain abandons imagined images of Eames jerking off to something he does know: the press of Eames' forearm against his throat and the lust in his eyes as he pinned Arthur against the wall, the way his voice had curled around Arthur's name.

Arthur has to bite down on the fleshy part of his palm not to moan aloud. He forces himself not to drag this out, to touch himself in every way he knows will give him the quickest orgasm and he's barely even pressed one spit-slick finger into himself up to the second knuckle before he's turning his face into the pillow and coming hard, shuddering and shaking apart.

"Fuck," Arthur whispers after a moment, because he never thought beyond getting himself off. There aren't any tissues within reach and he can't turn the light on, can't get out of bed and look for something to clean himself up with because Eames will hear. He's not about to wipe his hand on the sheets or his boxers and leave a tell-tale wet patch.

Shit, he hasn't done this since he was on school camp when he was sixteen. He feels unaccountably guilty - just like he had then - as he works his hand free from his boxers and pushes the sheet aside, raising his hand to his mouth. He licks the come from his fingers and palm before drying his hand on the sheet, his cheeks blazing hot from embarrassment.

Through it all he's still got an ear pricked for noises for Eames, and if he wasn't already blushing he would be when Eames comes with a low, raspy "Ohh," of relief that's positively pornographic. Arthur's suddenly glad he's come already, because that, oh, that would have been enough to push him to the edge right there.

As it is it's all Arthur can do to settle himself enough so that when Eames finally does come out of the bathroom and pads softly to the bed, he'll still think Arthur asleep. There are no whispered questions of Arthur name this time, and Arthur feels the bed sag and shift as Eames lies down. He curls up on the very edge, as far away from Arthur as he can get.

For a sudden, inexplicable moment, Arthur is outrageously offended. It's stupid, but he's offended. Even though he's meant to be asleep the whole time, he's offended, because Eames is meant to think he was asleep the whole time. Not awake, listening to Eames bring himself off in the bathroom as he does the same to himself only metres and a wall away, desperate and silent under these very sheets.

Despite all this, Arthur still falls asleep quickly, pulled under by his post-orgasm lethargy and this time he sleeps until daylight.

*

For a night of such broken rest, Arthur feels surprisingly well rested when he wakes. He's sprawled out across the bed and instantly knows he's alone. He rolls over and stretches indulgently.

The fan is off now, but instead a refreshing breeze gusts in through the open window, stirring the curtains. He can hear voices; the familiar rumble of Eames' voice a counterpoint to Maire and Claudette, and under that splashing water. They must be out at the pool. Eventually Arthur pushes himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a yawn.

He rubs at his eyes. It's not that he's deliberately trying not to think about what happened last night, but in the daylight it's far easier to compartmentalise and put away as something that he knows happened merely because of forced proximity. A side-effect of it, if you would.

Besides, Arthur is only human and the noises Eames was making were incredibly pleasing, after all, he thinks as he ducks into the bathroom to complete his morning ablutions. He pauses suddenly when he sees a bottle of lotion sitting innocently on the edge of the vanity unit. It has a plastic clip-top lid and Arthur is sure this is what Eames used last night. He feels decidedly creepy as he picks it up and flicks the lid open. It's lightly scented with apples. Had he been able to smell apples when Eames came back to bed last night?

Arthur mouth goes dry and he sets it back down quickly. He blushes and feels very silly for it as he washes his hands and his face.

After this, without bothering to dress any more than pulling on a pair of light cotton pants, Arthur ventures out towards where he suspects the noises from the pool to be originating. It's at the opposite end of the building to the drive, also accessible by a set of stairs. The pool is large and irregularly-shaped, a shimmering jewel in the morning sunlight set in green, green grass. He hesitates at the top of the stairs.

Eames is in the pool with Claudette, her arms twined around his neck. Maire sits on one of the loungers, pale skin hidden under a robe, a large floppy sunhat and the dark green umbrella.

It's Claudette who notices him. She detaches herself from Eames and splashes over to the edge. "Arthur!" she calls. "Arthur! Do be a dear and come down and join us, the water is lovely! William was just telling me--"

Whatever Eames had been telling her goes unsaid because she squeals as Eames childishly dunks her. But there is nothing childish at all about Eames when he swims over to the edge of the pool, however, because he's completely naked, water sheeting off his body as he boosts himself from the pool and pads over to the pile of towels, completely lacking in any kind of self-consciousness as he wraps a towel around his waist.

"Good morning, darling," he says cheerfully to Arthur, who stands at the foot of the stairs, trying not to gape like a fool.

Maire turns in her chair. She's wearing a ridiculously oversized pair of sunglasses to go with her sunhat. "Good morning, Arthur," she says. Claudette waves from in the pool and droplets of water glitter in the air where they fall from her fingertips.

"Um," Arthur says stupidly. "Good morning?"

Eames chuckles and pads over to the table under the umbrella where there are platters of food and jugs of drink. He pours himself what Arthur assumes is, from this distance, merely orange juice. Although to be honest he wouldn't put it past these people to drink cocktails for breakfast. God, Eames was swimming naked.

"He's not much of a morning person when he doesn't sleep well," Eames says to Maire, but all Arthur can think is Eames was swimming naked and a little Eames is naked under that towel, which is a stupid thing to think, because Eames is naked under his clothes, too, when he's wearing them. Which he isn't, right now.

Okay, maybe Arthur isn't as good at compartmentalising some things as he thought he was.

"Come over here, sweetheart," Maire says, reaching out and patting the arm of the chair next to her, "and William will bring you some breakfast."

"I will?" Eames turns, raises an eyebrow.

"Yes," she says firmly. "You will. I imagine it's your fault the dear boy didn't sleep well." It's not a question. It's most definitely not a question, although what Maire is implying is pretty obvious, as there's something entirely too naughty in her expression for such placid words.

"It is like sleeping with a furnace," Claudette complains. She's turned her back to the wall and is idly kicking water up into the air like a sparkling waterfall. "Particularly in this weather."

Arthur sits where Maire indicates, and Eames brings him a plate of fruit and a slice of toast and a cup of coffee made exactly how he likes it. Arthur shoots Eames a startled look as he takes a sip, although why he's surprised he'll never know. Eames just smiles wryly and shrugs with one shoulder and Arthur is momentarily distracted by a droplet of water wending its way down his chest.

(Eames doesn't quite clear his throat to regain Arthur's attention, and Arthur doesn't quite blush when he looks up to meet Eames' gaze again.)

*

"Go and find your William, dear," Claudette ordered. "I think he's out on the terrace. Maire wants to take the two of you to Chez Astoux for dinner."

When Eames had ducked off earlier to take a phone call, Arthur hadn't thought anything of it, even though he barely received any calls on this new, replacement number - such is the nature of their business that if anyone wants to hire them they'll find a way to get in contact - but Arthur is sure Eames would have passed it on to one or two of his trusted contacts who vetted potential clients by now.

He wanders down the narrow part of the terrace that runs alongside the apartment, to the open area at the front and hears the soft murmur of Eames' voice as he approaches. Not loud enough to make out the words, but enough that Arthur can tell by the tone that Eames is far from happy. He slows and peers around the corner.

Eames' expression is stormy as he hisses something final into the phone before ending the call. He looks down at the phone in his hand, mouth thinning and Arthur watches as he tenses, shifting his balance and his arm jerks like he's about to pitch his phone down the terrace before he thinks better of it. Whoever the phone call was from, it wasn't good news.

Arthur watches Eames squeeze the bridge of his nose, swipe his hand over his face and take a deep breath, before slipping the phone back into his pocket. Eames closes his eyes, lets out a breath through pursed lips and shakes himself, and when he opens his eyes again his expression is placid and calm. Arthur is suddenly struck by the similarity of this to how Eames prepares to forge in a dream, settling himself into a blank canvas onto which he can project his forgeries.

"Bad news?" Arthur calls out, stepping around the corner as Eames moves to heads back into the apartment.

Eames starts, turning to face him. "Arthur. Didn't see you there." He looks at Arthur still with that calm, pleasant expression.

"Clearly," Arthur says drily. "Bad news?" he repeats.

"What do you mean?"

Arthur tucks his hands in his pockets, rocks up onto the balls of his feet and back onto his heels. "You looked less than happy with whoever just called you."

"Ah," is what Eames says. "That."

When it doesn't appear that he's going to continue, Arthur prompts, "That, yes?"

The pause isn't significant by any means, but Arthur knows Eames well enough to know it's all he needs to put together cover or a lie or a sleight of hand misdirection. There's a sudden burn of disappointment in the pit of Arthur's stomach, because he's sure whatever Eames says next will be a bare fragment of the truth wrapped in a lie.

Eames smiles faintly as he steps in just that little closer to Arthur. He smells like sun and grass and a hint of cologne. "Just someone who wants me to work a job but isn't keen on taking no for an answer," he says. Arthur raises his eyebrow and in turn Eames raises his index finger, pressing it to Arthur's lips to halt any protestations, saying, "Hush. It's not a job I would take anyway. I promise." His smile deepens a moment but still doesn't reach his eyes.

Then he drops his hand and says, "I do think I might want to head back to Paris, maybe. In the morning if it's not too much of a bother."

"It's not much of a break if we've only been here for a week."

"Says the man whose usual idea of a holiday is staying in a city an extra day on a stopover between point A and point B. Besides, don't underestimate my ability to outstay my welcome." The stopover thing is a cheap dig, but it's such a line Eames is feeding him about outstaying his welcome that Arthur almost bursts out laughing right in Eames' face. He knows Inez, who owns their villa, has already given them permission to stay as long as they want - and from what Mariana has said, Arthur's sure they could stay years without outstaying their welcome - and they could hardly have been at Maire and Claudette's long enough to even sate both women's intense interest in their private lives, much less wear out a welcome.

Arthur isn't stupid, something is definitely up. "Eames, tell me what's going on."

"Nothing is 'going on', Arthur. I just think we should go back to Paris."

"Eames," Arthur says sharply, frowning. "I'm not stupid, I can tell when you're--"

Eames rolls his eyes and interrupts him in an insultingly bored tone, "And here I was thinking that we'd progressed far enough in the past months that these trust issues were resolved. Thank you for proving me wrong, Arthur. I do prefer to know where I stand with you, after all." The smile Eames then gives him is the tight sneer of the good old days when a day was classed as successful if they could manage to be civil to each other from start to finish. The disappointment in the expression burns him.

Arthur thinks of how far they've come (oh so far from back then when he would never have thought that there would ever be a point in his future where he'd look at Eames and wonder what it would be like to have him or be had). Even though Arthur knows his suspicions are warranted because despite what he says Eames is still being shady, he still feels a flicker of shame for not trusting Eames more.

"Okay," Arthur says slowly. "Okay, sure. If you want to leave, we'll leave." He hesitates and this time it's his turn to offer up a half-truth. "Tomorrow night we should have Ariadne come over for dinner, she's been asking to visit." She hasn't directly asked - in fact, Arthur's not even sure she knows Eames is staying with him - but Arthur knows how fond of Ariadne Eames is, and knows that he wouldn't let anything happen to her any more than Arthur would.

Eames looks at him for a long moment, one brow arched like he's the one with the right not to trust Arthur's word, before he nods. "Okay, sure," he parrots, mimicking Arthur's own voice a little. "That's an excellent idea. I haven't seen our darling little architect since I - we - arrived in France anyway," he says.

Then he reaches out like he's about to take Arthur by the elbow, before lowering his hand as if thinking better of it. "We should go, don't want to keep the ladies waiting."

He heads back inside and Arthur can't help feeling strange and unsettled as he follows. No matter what their stupid little arguments before, Eames has never obviously decided against touching him like that. Arthur has to force himself to remember that once it wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest.

He scrubs his hand through his hair and over his face. He wishes it didn't now.

*

Arthur watches Eames, all throughout the dinner, watching to see if he'll give up something to Arthur about the way he's feeling. There's not a single shred of the disappointment from earlier evident in the way he looks at Arthur or the way he acts. In fact, if Arthur didn't know better, he wouldn't think anything had changed at all.

Eames is the best at what he does, after all, and what he does is masks and forgeries of real emotion. Of course, Arthur is mostly sure Eames has never had to keep up this kind of facade for someone who's learning his most minute tics, and the fact that he doesn't crack in the slightest leads Arthur to seriously consider if maybe he'd completely misread the situation with the phone call.

Maybe it wasn't about Eames making up a lie to keep Arthur quiet. Maybe it was as Eames said and that pause (that pause that Arthur keeps coming back to, turning it over in his mind, probably doing his own head in just thinking about it) was nothing but Eames considering how much to tell Arthur.

Considering how much he thought he could trust Arthur with. The unsettled feeling that's been weighing in his stomach since that afternoon tightens, because he doesn't like considering that maybe, just maybe Eames doesn't trust him.

Arthur knows it's hypocritical and what's good for the goose should be good for the gander, but he's not the one who has ever given Eames a reason not to trust him.

"You're thinking very hard," Eames says, pulling the car into the drive. He'd called ahead to let Andre know their plans and the front lights were on (Arthur had taken the opportunity to place his own call to Ariadne to extend the invitation she allegedly made herself. His ear still rings a little from her shriek of joy finding out that Eames was in town).

"Mm," Arthur says.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Arthur glances at him. The warm glow of the house lights catches in his eyes just enough for Arthur to read his expression.

"I was just thinking..." Arthur says then stops. He rubs at his mouth. "It'll be sad to go, but I do kind of miss my apartment." Of course it wasn't what he was thinking at all, but he is now. The boundaries are clearer in there and it'll turn back into that game it once was when they're back, he's sure of it. Back to Eames' little tricks to undermine Arthur's already shaky willpower, back to Eames on the couch and Arthur a wall away (except now he might be listening for the soft breath and moan to carry through the timber of his closed door). Back to the security of familiar environs in a hope that it'll stem this growing want before it hits a point of exponential growth.

"It's not that far between here and there," Eames says, tapping an irregular rhythm on the steering wheel. "But I'm more than sure Inez will be happy to let you come back whenever you want. No doubt Mariana has already been on the phone to Inez, gushing about how lovely you are."

Arthur glances at him. Eames smiles faintly. "Oh come on, Arthur," he says, "everyone else thinks you're just lovely."

"'Everyone else'?"

Eames switches off the engine. "You have your moments," he says in a non-committal tone, "but really, I thought you were above fishing for compliments." He leans forward.

It seems such a deliberate move, telegraphing his intent, and Arthur's so sure Eames is going to kiss him (again) that he leans back. Instead Eames pops open the glove box and flips the little key ring holding the gate remote into it, before looking at Arthur with a raised brow. "Did you think that since I've kissed you, I'm just going to jump your bones at any minute now?"

"I'm--no, I don't think that at all." Rather Arthur is thinking of the sounds Eames would make kissing him right now (a deep kiss, messy with tongue, Eames moaning into Arthur's mouth and Arthur sliding his hand down to wrap his fingers around Eames' cock). In the darkness, Arthur flushes.

Eames smiles, but it seems a little strained. "Good, because that had nothing to do with us - with - with our little game. It was a thank you for giving meaning to something I love doing. It was my gift, Arthur, because god knows I own absolutely nothing of value anymore to give you in return."

"I never wanted anything - I just... you should've known. You should have always known." Arthur feels ridiculously earnest. "Your art - Eames, your art is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

"And that's what you value."

"Well. Yes, but... I value you too," Arthur protests, confused by the sudden flatness in Eames' tone.

"Oh?" Eames raises his eyebrow. "And in what way do you value me?" he asks, but he's not just trawling for compliments. Arthur can tell. There's a sharpness to him, an intensity well hidden that Arthur can only sense in the set of his shoulders and the faint tightening of his jaw. But Arthur doesn't know what he is expecting.

"I--" Arthur hesitates. "Well, of course I value your skills as a forger and as a thief and as an artist," he says, "I value your quick brain though you always like to pretend you're a dunce so people underestimate you. I value your SAS training a lot, for saving my ass when needed." He grins playfully at Eames, expecting a similar response, expecting anything but the disappointed look Eames gives him.

"Of course you do," Eames says quietly, then abruptly opens the car door and climbs out.

Arthur gapes after him. What was...? What just...? How did he even manage to fuck that up? What?

It's not until much later, after Arthur's already gone to bed (staring up at the ceiling, tossing and turning as sleep evades him, trying not to think about trust and disappointment and Eames) when he realises, sitting bolt upright. He almost falls out of bed, tripping on a tangle of bedding as he hurries downstairs to Eames' room. It's empty.

He eventually finds Eames outside in the dark, sitting with his legs dangling in the pool and chain-smoking. There's an overflowing ashtray beside him.

"Eames?" he says quietly, hesitating at the edge of the deck.

Eames turns his head towards Arthur, and says, "Mm?" in a languid voice, before raising a cigarette to his mouth.

Arthur takes a step forward and his bare foot knocks something that skitters across the ground a short distance with the fragile sound of glass. He picks up the cup - it's the tumbler Eames had been using the other night - and places it on one of the tables. Next to the empty brandy decanter. Empty. Eames must have drunk it all. Eames must be smashed.

Arthur chooses to ignore the fact that Eames isn't meant to drink without his permission, much less get completely hammered because that's beside the point, and pads forward to crouch down at Eames' side.

He notices almost immediately that Eames' breath is heavy with more than the brandy - there's a necked bottle of whiskey on the edge of the pool next to his leg and he's flipping the cap through his fingers the way Arthur's seen him do with a poker chip.

Guilt is a new one for Arthur, he's mostly sure he's only been the catalyst with his carelessness this time; that he's not ultimately responsible, that it's Eames' situation that drives him to these moods. "I do value you, Eames," Arthur says softly. "I value our friendship. Even if I do take you for granted, even if sometimes I act like a dick or act like I know what's best for you, I think... you're more important to me than I realise."

Eames hmphs softly, staring down at the cigarette between his fingers. "You know," he says, "you know, I don't even know why I care so much what you think about me, Arthur, to be honest." Despite how much he's drunk, his voice is steady. "Why does it matter to me if you - if you value me or not?"

"I wish I knew," Arthur murmurs, settling down on the edge of the pool next to Eames. He doesn't put his feet in the water, instead crossing his legs. If he knew why Eames cared (and he didn't, before this, when they were more colleagues than friends, just as Arthur didn't care either), he's sure he could somehow stop upsetting Eames, or at least he'd know what he needed to do each time to fix it.

Arthur reaches out impulsively and without a second thought, and pushes Eames' hair off his forehead. Eames slumps to his side, leaning against Arthur's shoulder, and as he tips his head in against Arthur's sighing a soft gust of booze-laden breath, Arthur feels like a knot has loosened in his belly at Eames' willingness to touch him again.

"So tired," Eames says, and now he sounds drunk, slurred and the smooth, rounded edges of his accent smeared out with exhaustion.

"Then go to bed, idiot," Arthur teases. He lifts his hand, curls his fingers around the back of Eames' neck.

Eames huffs a laugh and tilts his head further around, his nose pressing against Arthur's jaw. Arthur can feel the touch of Eames' eyelashes against his cheek, soft like butterfly wings, the tickling warmth of Eames' breath against his throat. "I could love you," Eames murmurs quietly into the curve of Arthur's throat, "if you wanted me to. Arthur, I could love you so very much."

Arthur goes very still.

Eames is drunk, he tells himself, and Eames is tired and emotional and he's only saying that because he's drunk and tired and emotional. Theirs is not a relationship destined for anything even remotely on that scale. They are not destined for love or for anything grander than twisted desire based on messed up circumstances. Eames may have had his own reasons for wanting Arthur long before this, but Arthur knows he'd never considered Eames as a potential sexual partner until after he saw Eames letting himself get used over a Maserati, and that? That is fucking messed up.

No, even if they wanted to, men like them have no future together. Arthur knows that and he's positive that Eames - when sober - knows it too. But now Eames is not sober; he's drunk and sincere, with all his walls down, and he's offering Arthur something he thinks Arthur wants.

Arthur doesn't even dare wonder what Eames wants. "You need sleep," he eventually says, knowing it's a complete cop out. "You should go to bed; we'll be leaving early in the morning."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incomplete WIP part. It's in fragments, but hopefully it makes enough sense. Obviously, if for some reason I do complete this, it will be updated here.

"You're living with Arthur now?" Ariadne asks, twisting to watch Eames as he passes by her chair. 

It's testament to how much Arthur's become used to Eames touching him that he doesn't even flinch for a moment when Eames lightly trails his fingertips across the back of his neck, or when he cups Arthur's jaw and bends to press a kiss to the top of Arthur's head. Arthur doesn't even have to try to hold his expression still as Eames slides into the seat next to him. 

Ariadne's eyes widen.

Eames smiles at her. "It seemed time, didn't it, Arthur?" His gaze flicks to Arthur, the corner of his mouth curving in a different kind of smile. Challenging. Defying Arthur to refute his words. 

Arthur holds his gaze for a long moment. He sees the tenseness around Eames' eyes and chooses to go along with him (clearly there's a reason for it, and Arthur's... becoming used to playing along) and smiles faintly, before glancing down at his salad. "It did." 

He doesn't miss the incredulous but pleased look Ariadne shoots him and then Eames, because she can't read either of them beyond the front they want her to see. That she was hoping for something like this (and what it implies; something deeper than a friendship, a relationship, more) he doesn't even understand.

"I thought it would never happen!" Ariadne says. She catches the look Arthur shoots her and laughs. "Oh, come on, Arthur. The two of you bicker and flirt  _all the time_. Yusuf's told me all kinds of stories about things this one," she pokes her fork at Eames, "has said about you before. Haven't you, Eames?"

Eames stills for a fraction of a moment (Arthur knows him by these pauses), his gaze flicking to Arthur and then back to Ariadne. "Yusuf," he says lightly, "is a troublemaker and a tattle-tale. He can consider this the last time I send work his way."

"I think it's sweet," Ariadne objects and wiggles her fingers at him with a grin. "Our big, brash Brit getting all touchy-feely about his feelings."

Arthur slides out of his chair to fetch a fresh bottle of wine from the kitchen. He wonders what Eames could have possibly said to Yusuf about him to make Yusuf - and by extension, Ariadne - think there was even a possibility of anything happening between them (anything legitimate, not this contract where the rules are fucking messed up). He labours under no misconception that Eames could be carrying a torch, or is the type to spill lovesick confessions; honesty, to Eames, is not a virtue. He wears so many masks sometimes Arthur wonders if he knows the real Eames, if that's even his real name, or if the thirty years of well hidden history Arthur's been painstakingly tracking down is just another flawless forgery. 

Then he remembers Eames' steady confession in the cafe in New York. His drunken words murmured into Arthur's skin in Cannes ( _'I could love you'_ ). That was honesty, as much as Arthur might want to deny it. But that - both of those things - are entirely different to what Ariadne is implying. Her words insinuate a depth beyond what Arthur would expect of Eames when talking about him (beyond "I want to kill Arthur for [whatever it is Arthur has done this time]"), and Arthur isn't sure Yusuf and Eames' friendship extends as far as Eames telling him who he wants to fuck, much less talking about  _feelings_.

When he returns Eames says, "Oh, that's something you'd best ask Arthur, darling. He tells the story much better than I could." 

"What story?" 

"Of how the two of you finally got together," Ariadne says slyly.

"Oh. How we got... together." Arthur looks at Eames, who smiles sweetly up at him. His gaze is cold, though, sharp. It feels like it's been a long time since Eames has looked at him like that.

Eames slides his fingers over Arthur's wrist. "Do tell her about how you followed me around New York for a week before you said anything, darling."

Arthur's poker face is normally nearly as good as Eames', but this time he struggles to keep the bite out of his tone when he says, "Shall I tell her what you were doing too, while I followed you around?"

Laughing, Eames' grip tightens painfully on Arthur's wrist and he swings around in his chair to face Ariadne, who now looks a touch confused - she can clearly sense the undercurrents, but she's not quite experienced enough to decipher them. Arthur would never underestimate her, though, this is the woman who managed to ferret out all Cobb's problems in a way Arthur had never been able to. And not only that, she helped Cobb down the road to resolution, which was more than Arthur could ever claim. No, it wouldn't do to underestimate her and it wouldn't do to assume that just because she's going along with this she entirely believes it.

"I was working," Eames says. "Just a few odd jobs here and there. I knew Arthur was following me - he's good, but I'm better, of course." There's the obligatory pause for a laugh. "I waited him out a week to see if he would pluck up the courage, before confronting him myself. I simply couldn't wait a moment longer." Arthur can almost believe the adoring look Eames flashes him, if not for the truth: it's not a sweet love story he's describing. He still feels like his heart has lurched an inch to the side, though.  _I could love you,_  he remembers, and Eames would look at him exactly like this if Arthur had said  _yes, I want you to._

*

"I'm just cross you didn't say anything, Arthur. You didn't even tell me Eames was here!" 

"That was my fault," Eames lies smoothly. 

*

"Eames, the kitchen please," Arthur says pleasantly. He flicks a smile at Ariadne who raises a brow, and curls his fingers around Eames' wrist, tugging him along behind. 

"Why didn't you just tell her you were staying on the couch?" Arthur hisses under the sound of water as he busies himself at the sink.

"I  _tried_ ," Eames says. "She called me on it, called it bullshit, because there wasn't anything to support the theory. No blankets, none of my stuff in the living room. All that." 

It's true, there isn't anything. And it's Arthur's fault; he'd gone through the place making sure everything of Eames' - everything showing he was living there on Arthur's couch - was put away, even to the point of stuffing the pillow and blanket back into the cupboard and giving Eames his own drawer. Arthur turns to fetch a spoon from the drawer and Eames traps him in the corner.

"It's your own fault, Arthur." Eames shuffles closer, backing Arthur into the corner of the bench and sliding his leg between Arthur's thighs.

"What are you doing?"

"Tell me Ariadne's not looking."

"What?"

"She's gawking around the door frame, isn't she?"

She is. She grins at Arthur. Pops him two thumbs up.

"Yeah."

"So," Eames says, sliding his hand around the back of Arthur's neck, feathering his fingers into the hair at Arthur's nape. It feels nice. "We have to make sure she believes it."

"And then when the contract is up, what? We break up? Amicably?" Arthur reaches out, realising it feels weirder not to be touching Eames than it does to touch him. He runs his fingers down the line of Eames' back.

"I don't know about 'amicably', but yes, if you want." Eames dips his head, presses his mouth against Arthur's throat, right over his pulse. Arthur inhales sharply when he feels the press of Eames' tongue against his skin. 

"What does that me-an?" Arthur gasps out as Eames pushes forward with his hips. He's not hard and Arthur's not hard, but Arthur's body is definitely interested in where it thinks this is going. His body remembers the touch of Eames' body, the heavy weight of it curled around him only two nights before and the imprint of Eames' fingerprints on his skin. "Why not amicably?"

"Arthur, you're the weak link here," Eames says into his skin with relish. He's completely ignored Arthur's question and they both know it. "We both know I can act like I am head over heels in love with you, but can you do the same for me? She's going to be watching you, after all, because she knows - well, let's just say I think she knows a lot more than she's letting on."

As Eames speaks, Arthur feels a sinking feeling in his stomach, although he manages to keep it from showing on his face. What Eames is saying is true. Arthur's not an actor. He's not a forger. He can't mimic emotion in the ways Eames can to make people believe things of him that aren't true. Arthur is point. He's a researcher and a heavy and the first line of defence. He's never had to be an actor and the best he can manage - though he knows it's excellent - is a stoic mask.

And Ariadne, above all, is a smart, curious woman. He knows now, after the fact, what she did to Cobb during the inception job. He can appreciate her lack of compunction when it comes to snooping uninvited on someone's dreams; new to their line of work, she wouldn't have known how frowned upon it is, particularly in the criminal world. Cobb was a loose cannon and Arthur's responsibility, but Arthur was too close - and wouldn't stoop to invading Cobb's dreams - to see how to fix him, whereas Ariadne had gone straight in and not only found the source of his pain, but forced Cobb to reveal truths he hadn't even told Arthur. 

If there is anyone he would need to convince about this thing he managed to make happen through his own pigheadedness, it would be Ariadne.

He knows she's close with Eames; somehow in the midst of all the planning and the being brilliant (because Arthur can openly admit it to himself that Eames was brilliant, even if the man himself had merely assumed Arthur condescending) Eames had won Ariadne over in a way Arthur had never quite managed. So if Ariadne thinks there's some honesty to the emotion Eames is pretending - which, making her think there is, is a pretty awful con for Eames to pull on her, one of his genuine friends - she's going to be watching Arthur twice as sharply for that honesty in his own reactions.

Arthur doesn't doubt Ariadne would hurt him thoroughly if she thought he had done the same to Ea--he's distracted from his thoughts by Eames' hand curving over his arse and Arthur  _really_  isn't prepared to have Eames feel him up in the kitchen while Ariadne watches so he twists, shoving Eames back.

"We have company," Arthur says, pitching his voice loud enough for Ariadne to hear, and as soon as Eames steps back, smoothing his hand over his hair, Arthur turns, fishing a spoon out of the drawer. He stares at it in dismay. He doesn't even remember why he needed it.

"Dessert," Eames says helpfully by Arthur's side. He props his hip against the bench, arms folded across his chest casually as he watches Arthur, smug and content like he hadn't just been molesting Arthur in his own kitchen for the purposes of faking a relationship. Arthur wants to punch him in his smug face.

\-------------But worst of all, the thing Arthur really wants out of all of this is... god, it's for it to be true. He desperately wishes it was true, all of it. Since Cannes he's been aware of how his feelings for Eames have changed; not just his jealous over the proprietary way Maire and Claudette had treated him, but the way they'd welcomed Arthur into their little group like he was meant to be there. Like he was Eames' Arthur (William's Arthur) as they were so fond of referring to him.

And he wants to be Eames' Arthur. The thought both thrills and terrifies him. He wants Eames to be living with him for real, not just a mistaken interpretation of their situation on Ariadne's behalf. He wants to steal Eames away into the kitchen and make out with him, all pressed up against the counter because they can't keep their hands off each other. And at the end of the night he'll want to take Eames to bed and learn every inch of his body just because he can.

He wants all of this, desperately, and knows he can't have. Because Eames is only here because of a contract and while he's confessed to wanting Arthur, that he could love Arthur  _if Arthur wanted it_  (and what of what Eames wants?), Arthur is under no misconception that if he went to Eames and capitulated, Eames would consider it a bet won, fuck him thoroughly - Christ, Arthur shivers at the thought - and that would be it.

Arthur knows part of his problem is that he's been forced into this close contact with Eames through the terms of the contract (fuck the contract)

*

"I can't believe we're having movie night," Arthur says flatly. 

"Oh, don't be like that," Eames says and flicks him a shit-eating grin, patting the couch next to him. "Why don't you come sit down, Arthur, and we can have a snuggle." Arthur shoots him a dirty look and Eames just grins wider.

Ariadne watches hawk-eyed, like she's waiting for him to mess up. Like she doesn't really believe this charade. If she doesn't, Arthur knows it's because he's the weaker link, not Eames the consummate actor. Gathering all the shred of his dignity around him, Arthur strides over and sits down next to Eames on the couch. Eames shifts, his arm running along the back of the couch. 

Two movies and five and a half bottles of wine between them later, Ariadne's laying across the armchair, her legs hanging over one armrest as she uses the other as a pillow, barely conscious, and Arthur has given in to Eames, sprawling out on the couch and up against Eames' warm, solid body. He's buzzing from the wine and from the way Eames can't seem to stop touching him, little insignificant touches against his skin, warm fingers teasingly skating across his cheek, his neck, tracing spirals on his upper arm just below the sleeve of his shirt. At one point Eames links his fingers through Arthur's, and Arthur twists and looks at him, startled. Eames just smiles a little, and shrugs when Arthur retrieves his hand.

"Ugh," Ariadne says, as the credits roll. "I should really go home."

"Don't be ridiculous," Eames says before Arthur can even open his mouth. "You're not going home in this state. Is she, Arthur?"

"Of course not. I'd have to escort her home--"

"And then I'd have to escort  _you_  home," Eames interjects. "So really, best if you stop here for the night."

Arthur says, "I'll get blankets." 

*

"Where'm I gonna sleep?" Eames says. He slouches against the door frame. "Ariadne's got my bed."

*

Arthur buries himself under the blankets, back resolutely to Eames. He can hear Eames disrobe in the rustle of fabric and Eames hums, softly, Sinatra again like it's his default. This time it's 'Fly me to the moon' and Arthur wonders if Eames chooses theses songs deliberately ( _in other words, please be true_ ), because Eames never really struck Arthur as the Sinatra type. But then he remembers finding an Ella Fitzgerald collection by his stereo that definitely wasn't his, so maybe it's not so far-fetched that Eames can love big band if he loves slow motion jazz.

*

"Hands to yourself," Arthur warns. He feels the bed sag and settle with Eames' weight. The light flicks out and he hears Eames' steady breathing in the darkness. Arthur closes his eyes.

"...Arthur?" Eames murmurs.

"What?" 

*

Arthur opens his eyes. He's curled in against Eames' broad chest. Eames' broad, bare chest. "Oh,  _what_." 

"Don't know," Eames mumbles sleepily and Arthur can hear the rumble of Eames' voice under his ear. A hand lands on his face and then shifts to his hair, rubbing his scalp. "Woke up 'n you were snuggling. S'okay, though. Don't mind."

"Mm," Arthur says. He doesn't mind either. He should, he's sure of it, but he doesn't. All that wine is burning up in his veins happily and he nuzzles against Eames' chest, shifting, moving until he drags his lips across skin and then  _oh_. The hard nub of Eames' nipple is under his mouth and he sets his teeth against it. Eames sighs, his fingers tightening in Arthur's hair.

Eames is restless under his mouth as he sucks one nipple, rolling the other between his fingers. "Arthur," he says, not sounding so sleepy now. "What are you doing--?"

"I'm just..." Arthur says and scrapes his teeth across Eames' skin. He fumbles around with the blanket before his hand lands flush on Eames' crotch. Eames inhales sharply. He's deliciously half-hard under Arthur's hand, and Arthur can feel the scorching heat of his skin through his boxer briefs. He thinks of Cannes and of holding his breath in the darkness to hear Eames jerk off and groans softly.

" _Arthur--_ " Eames repeats sharply, but it trails off into a groan of his own when Arthur squeezes gently. He can feel Eames filling under his hand, the half-softness of his cock turning thicker, harder and oh god, it's a heady feeling to know that it's for him, because of him. That Eames really wants him.

Arthur slithers up Eames' body, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, his throat, his jaw and then his mouth, shifting so he can sprawl half-over Eames, pressing his own cock against 

*

"This feels familiar," Arthur murmurs into Eames' mouth. He feels like he's done this before, tasted Eames' mouth, pressed up against the weight of his body.

Eames reaches up, pushes Arthur's hair off his face. "Mm, maybe." His hands are just the right size to cup Arthur's face just so.

*

Eames tugs Arthur up, over him, settles broad hands on his hips, moving and shifting and then Arthur's flush between his thighs, the hard length of his cock settled alongside Eames' own. Arthur groans and pushes down with his hips. He thinks he might like to be naked for this but it's too much effort and he'd have to move away from Eames to take his pants off, so he doesn't, just rocks against Eames again. "Ohh," Eames says. "That's good, keep doing that."

" _Shh_ ," Arthur whispers against Eames' mouth, "be quiet or Ariadne will hear." (Of course, they're both drunk, so ''quiet" for drunk people is nothing like "quiet" for sober people, and the rhythmic creak of the wooden bedframe and the sighs and moans will carry right through the closed bedroom door.

Perhaps ironically, this will convince Ariadne more than anything either of them said or did for the whole night before this.)

*

Eames sucks a mark onto Arthur's hip. "I wanted to hurt you."

*

He opens his mouth to speak but Eames continues, this time with a shade of bitterness. "I am right here, right under your nose, and you still go looking elsewhere even though you know you can't even bring anyone home and fuck them in your own bed. Because of me." 

Eames continues, his tone easing to something lighter, more persuasive. "And then there's me." He splays his hand on his chest. "I'm never going to get laid while you're pissing about being all honourable, am I?

*

It's an excellent forgery of a Matisse and it's sitting right there in the middle of Arthur's living room.

Arthur's first instinct is to smash it. Destroy it. Ruin what Eames spent all his time working on with Arthur away.

While the cat is away the mice will play, and this mouse promised not to do exactly this. Signed a contract saying he wouldn't. Arthur has to stop, take a deep breath; because he's so fucking angry he can't even think straight. 

If Eames is doing this, then what other conditions of his contract is he flagrantly flaunting? He sinks down into the armchair. He'd trusted Eames. And this is what you got trusting a con man and a thief, ultimately.

Arthur hears a key in the door and jumps to his feet. When the door opens, Eames backs in, his hands full of bags. He turns, humming around the wallet he's got jammed between his teeth (Sinatra, always Sinatra) and shoves the door shut with his heel.

He stops when he sees Arthur. Sets his bags down, drops the wallet from his teeth to his hand, and says warily, "Hi."

Arthur just stands there, next to the Matisse, and looks at Eames. It hurts, it actually fucking  _hurts_  to know he's done this. "I trusted you," he says. He expects his voices to sound different to usual, raw with hurt and disappointment and anger. Instead he just sounds resigned. Maybe it's true, maybe he unconsciously expected this to happen. Maybe he never even trusted Eames, not really.

Eames' gaze flicks between Arthur's face and the Matisse. 

"You don't even want to offer an excuse?" Arthur asks when Eames remains silent. Now he sounds angry, and he can feel it burning in his chest, in the back of his throat, bitter like bile.

"Would you believe anything I have to say?" Eames' tone is clipped, his usual warmth completely gone.

*

"Yeah..." Eames says slowly, licking the blood from his teeth. "There's a bit of a problem.  _I_  have a bit of a problem," he amends. He changes hands holding the bag of frozen peas to his cheek.

He doesn't sound particularly fussed, but Arthur knows not to trust that tone by now. "Oh?"

"Mm. Didn't want to say anything, but this shit is kind of hard to hide," and he gestures to his face, "after a while. There are only so many times you can fall down steps and walk into doors." 

"Eames."

"Yeah, so apparently all three debts have been shifted on and bought out by someone who has a slightly different timetable."

Arthur feels a sinking feeling in is gut. "Who?" he says. "How long have we got?"

Eames gives Arthur a steady look. "'We' don't have anything, darling. I let you bully me into your contract, but I can't let you take this any further."

*

Eames has carefully built a wall of lies and half-truth to protect Arthur.

*

"That time in London?"

This time Eames looks genuinely uncertain. "In all honesty, I don't know. It could have been a warning that they've always known where I am and can get me anywhere. Or maybe it was just a mugging."

*

Arthur swears softly and closes his eyes a moment. "This is my fault," he says. 

"What?" Eames says incredulously. "No, Arthur, don't be stupid. You didn't make me a compulsive gambler and a liar--"

"But I did arrogantly believe that if I was in control of everything I could control you." Okay, maybe that's not how Arthur meant to phrase it. "Not control you, like..." he waves his hand. "I should have paid off the entire debt up front, instead of proposing a week by week deal; I could have given your debtors a lump sum and still taken the payment out of your hide week after week until I was satisfied you'd learned your lesson, but instead I didn't trust  _you_  enough."

"Arthur. You're not making any sense." 

Arthur rubs at his forehead. "If I'd paid it off then the only one you'd owe the debt to would be me. But I didn't trust you. I thought if I did that you'd do a runner."

*

"Oh Arthur, you will  _never_  be like any of those people."

Christ, Eames is in a mood now.

*

Arthur sags tiredly in the shower, braced on arms folded against the wall, his head resting on his arms as he lets the hot water pound down on his neck and shoulders. The steam in the bathroom swirls with a blast of cooler air for a moment. Arthur tenses. "Eames," Arthur calls over the sound of the water. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just using the toilet!" he hears Eames sing out in response. Surely enough, he hears the toilet flush and there's another gust of cooler air. He relaxes.

Only to tense up again when he hears the shower door slide open. He turns. "Get the fuck out," he snaps. 

Eames, completely naked, ignores him and steps in, closing the door behind him. "Taking orders wasn't part of the contract," he reminds.

"Ugh. I knew I overlooked something."

Eames chuckles. The shower feels tiny, with both of them inside. "You look tense," Eames says. "Let me help you with that." Before Arthur can ever protest, Eames has all his hands all over him, one hand on the back of his neck (and Arthur knows it's ostensibly to hold him in place, just as Eames knows Arthur could easily break away), the other working firmly down the length of his spine.

"Stop please, I don't need..." Oh, but Arthur did. It feels even better than the hot water. "You don't have to," he finally says lamely.

"You're paying me for this," Eames reminds and Arthur makes a noise of disgust, because trust Eames to fucking mention it every single time. "Oh, don't be like that, my darling heart, I don't mind at all. Two birds, one stone: I need a shower and you need to relax," he murmurs against the back of Arthur's neck, and Arthur has to admit that Eames' hands are really talented. He tries to ignore the fact that Eames is close in behind him, as naked as he is, and instead lets Eames rub the tension from his shoulders.

He feels Eames' finger trail down his side and shivers. "That's a god-awful bruise you've got there, Arthur."

"There was a run-in with Gambaro's men outside the club. Nothing serious." He waves a hand dismissively and then groans when Eames slides his hand away from the discoloured skin and digs his thumb into a particularly hard knot, before smoothing away the tension. "Oh god, that feels so fucking good you have no idea--wait, Eames, what are you...?"

"Earning my keep. Washing your back." Amusement bubbles up in his tone and Eames continues to moves his hands across Arthur's back, but this time his hands are slick with soap and his touch strokes across the skin instead of pressing into the muscle underneath. 

"Eames," Arthur says warningly. Last time was a mistake, he shouldn't have given in to Eames, and if Eames is expecting that again...

"Oh, hush up, Arthur." Eames continues to touch him, sliding his hands down the length of Arthur's body, shoulders to the rise of his ass and then back up to his shoulders and down his arms. 

Eames' hands leave him for a moment - Arthur tenses instinctively - and when they return it's to tangle in Arthur's hair, the steamy air flooding with the scent of Arthur's shampoo. Arthur groans again as Eames massages his scalp. "You like that, don't you?" Eames says and Arthur makes a pleased noise of agreement. Part of his brain is flashing warning lights, but playing with his hair and massaging his scalp has always been one of his button pushers and Arthur can't help but relax further into Eames' hands, swaying backwards a little towards him. His hands slip on the tiles.

Eames coaxes Arthur back further and he feels Eames' chest against his shoulder blades, his back, and Eames tilts Arthur's head back, under the water (hand cupped on his forehead to prevent the soapy water from running into his eyes). Even over the sound of the water Arthur can hear Eames humming softly as he rinses Arthur's hair, feel it vibrating through him. Eames, humming, like he's genuinely content.

Even though the situation is ripe for it, even though Arthur's body is helplessly stirring underneath Eames' manipulations, Eames doesn't push it. He just leans Arthur against him, one hand tangled in Arthur's hair, the other curled around his chest, both men under the steady stream of hot water. Maybe it's the massage or the wash or the solid pressure of Eames' body against his, but Arthur's not entirely sure he's ever felt this relaxed around Eames before. 

Particularly naked.

Arthur knows he shouldn't do this, he knows it so, so much; he doesn't want to encourage Eames in any way, shape or form, because Arthur doesn't want to feel like he's no better than all the other men and women who used Eames for sex (doesn't want  _Eames_  to think he's little better, for all Eames' attempts to break him).

He knows he shouldn't do it, but he does anyway. He shifts his centre of balance so instead of leaning backwards into Eames at the shoulders, it pulls Eames flush against him from his shoulders to his hips. Eames gasps, soft and unexpected in Arthur's ear and Arthur can feel the jut of Eames' cock against his ass.

Eames' voice is rough. "Arthur, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"It's okay," Arthur says. He wraps his hand around Eames' wrist and slides his hand downwards until Eames' fingers brush against his own hard cock. He exhales softly. "It's not just you."

"Oh," Eames says, and, "Did you...?"

Arthur bites his lip. He shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't, he shouldn't. He nods. "Yes," he breathes. "I want to."

*

Santosh stands over Arthur. "Or maybe I should just have him suck me off." He jams the gun harder against Arthur's temple and Arthur winces at the sharp stab of pain as the skin breaks. 

Eames growls, a feral sound deep in his chest. 

*

"You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you?"

*

Arthur watches Eames move, slowly like he's in great pain. He doesn't look at Arthur, not even once has he looked at Arthur since he entered the office. He sinks to his knees in front of Santosh.

"Eames,  _no_ ," Arthur whispers. He can't help himself.


End file.
